Tanktanica Part I
by Tm2 Dinobot
Summary: Tanktanica is a story about a young girl who falls into with a silver-tongued devil who slowly consumes her soul. Oh, and there's giant robots. Currently in Beta.
1. Chapter 1

**Tanktanica**

 **Part I**

 **I**

I rub my optics, staring at the blinking message light on my console that seems intent on blinding me. Who is contacting me at this hour? It dawns on me that there are a hundred inhabited planets in the sky, and no telling where on the net they are. They don't have to be on this vermin infested mudball. Primus, it's too early for this. I open the message while surfing three screens at once. MadLoveHandle98 is showing off a rare Nicene fertility sculpture from Nicene XII. Rare my big, treaded foot. I've seen three in person and held one. This is a forgery.

My friend, Electric, is in the chat log, admonishing the bragard for his poor attempts at fabrication. I'm just about to jump in the chat as Tank_Gurrl and rip him a new one when my optics glance back over at my message box. That's new. I stare, not believing what I am seeing. It's an image of a painting "Voyeur in Steel", and an exceptional fake at that. Clean lines and edges, but the colors are utterly mesmerizing. Iridescent greens and oranges that shift into the UV spectrum. It takes me more than a few minutes to recognize the artist. It's a Les Obus. This is no fake. Even as a still image it is captivating; in person it would dominate any room. Whoever this messenger is, they have an honest to goodness Les Obus.

I quickly check the rest of the message. There's nothing else, just the image and an address. Diolex. I pull up a map, check the time and access my credit account, the internet troll already forgotten. Diolex was a small hub port eight systems away. Silently I curse.

Any lone female on her own has a hard time of it, Decepticon or not. Normally Fury would take care of me, finding us jobs, but I have been scraping by on my own after we… parted ways. My jaw is still broken in two places from that 'discussion'. I've had nothing to eat and need to be at work in four cycles. I have nothing to sell. I am indebted to my employer for the foreseeable future. I have nu chance of scraping together enough credits to get off this mudball. I would still need to jump three shuttles across eight backwater systems, just to reach the hubworld.

And once I arrived a week late, then what? Did I really think this mysterious stranger would just wait around? How many other art collectors have they told? Not to mention the scoundrels and cutthroats that would undoubtedly get word of this. I personally know a slimy little Vykine who had killed three men for a Sanatran broach ten times less valuable than this. A hundred times less valuable. A Les Orbus has almost no measurable value. No, there's not a chance in the universe I'll ever be able to get there in time.

The conversation in the chat room has slowed, and Elee asks me if I'm okay. Exactly what I need to not hear right now. She's too kind for her own good; too much if an Autobot. I sign off, throwing my tablet against the wall with a curse. I hate my life. I hate myself. I stare in the mirror, making out my appearance in my darkened hovel, outline cast by the harsh light of the monitors. I see a broken girl, her scars adding nothing to her homeliness. I see a quiet Decepticon who likes books and history over punching and killing. I see someone with a rage problem, with no future, who would probably take too strong to drink if she could afford it. Someone who people use but never see. Someone who will never amount to anything.

In short, a loser.

I smack my face a few times, being careful of my tender jaw. I have to put that message out of my mind. It is clearly someone mocking me, showing me what I can't have and will never achieve. I raise off the packed dirt floor, turn off my computers and walk out the door. My first shift at work is still some time off, and daybreak even further than that, but I don't care. It's not like I've got anywhere else to be.

I work as a bodyguard for a local crime baron. His mansion is extensive, and even with guard dogs and snipers on sight, he feels better with a dedicated tank on patrol. Show of force and all that. Personally I think he just likes the feeling of control. We're so far off the beaten path that I doubt anyone actually knows what a Decepticon is. Yet I've found there's a certain satisfaction that comes from ordering killer death machines around. It also tends to shorten one's life expectancy. I hope he realizes that.

I clock in and nod to the other guards on my way to the perimeter fence. They're very young, like me; like everything else on this very old planet. Most don't survive long enough to become old on a backwater world like this. I'm the oldest thing here by several thousand years, but counting for local conversion, I'm still only in my early twenties.

I stoop through the doorway, but not low enough, making sure to give my head a crack on the doorframe with a muttered curse. I'm taller than most Cybertronians and I practically tower over organics. Species from all over seem to call this forgotten place home, but I am the only transformer I have seen. I shift into alt mode, feeling my gears and panels rearrange themselves unconsciously, folding into an alternative diametric shape. Where moments before a tank of a femmebot stood, now a girl as a tank resides.

It's still a few hours till dawn yet. The world is quiet. Even with the floodlights around the perimeter, there is solace to be found. I stall my patrol on the backside of the estate, pulling into a grove of fruit trees and killing my engine. I can't get my mind off that painting.

The more I think about it, the weirder it gets. Someone wanted me, specifically, to know what they had. The image sent matched no known photo on the net, and no one would have found my contacts accidentally. This wasn't some drag net scammer. This was intentional.

I like mysteries. I like crime novels and whodunnit stories. I like the hidden things of the world, the little moments that make history come alive. But I don't like it when they are a potential threat to my life. I don't like being ordered to charge a ridge, I don't like darkened alleys with shady clients, and I don't like strangers sending me cryptic messages.

I am contemplating these things when I hear the distinctive click of a radio off to my right. It is a quiet night, still and placid. Nothing seems amiss. I turn my receptors to full and perform a passive sensor sweep.

In the grove of trees, lying prone on the ground, are two humanoid individuals. They are staring at me with wide eyed trepidations, trying very hard to be very still. Dressed in the local military uniforms as they are, I conclude they are a forward unit, given they have enough surveillance equipment to spy on even the most elusive if targets. A drug lord, for instance.

I roll my turret their direction and watch both their faces go pale. They've been here a while, there's no telling how long they've gone unnoticed. I don't usually patrol the back part of the property.

I hear the double click from their radio and stop. They just gave the go signal for whoever is listening in on the other end. Then I begin to hear it, the steady whump whump of mechanical blades chopping the air. I never would have detected them this far out if my sensors hadn't been cranked to the max.

I transform and fix the two spied with a sly grin. They will live, their roles already committed. My earlier assessment proves correct, they've never seen a Transformer. I'm pushing 25', and my shoulder mounted Main Battle Cannon is enough to take the piss out of most beings. Which the one on the left does and promptly relieves himself.

Flicking them a salute, I turn and run back to the main house. The missiles are already streaking overhead. The alarms sound as the choppers appear on the horizon, opening fire. The missiles strike the house and everything explodes into flame. Just like that I'm back on a battlefield.

The hired mercenaries have all scattered and run, their contracts worthless in the face of the local government or rival kingpin. On this planet, they were essentially one in the same. The ones with more loyalty than sense stay and pay the ultimate price quickly enough. The choppers roar past me, peppering me with rounds. I have to shield my face from the ammunition and the heat of the flames. Fortunately they did not come prepared to deal with me. I scream in rage as they circle around again, but I don't have time to mess with them.

Back at the house I don't bother with a door. I just make my own. Inside is pure bedlam. Bodies lie scattered about, flames consuming all. The gold-plated staircase is puddling. The faux-painted ceilings are curdling. I smell Napalm, or some local variant. It's getting too hot in here, even for me. I can't breathe, I can barely see, flipping through the spectrums.

I test what is left of the stairs, praying they will hold. They do, but just barely. Things are better on the second floor. More still on the third. People are running and screaming. They're wounded and scared, but alive. That will soon change once a second salvo arrives.

I know where I am now. I have a mission. Two doors to the right is the boss's quarters. They take the whole southern wing. Liquin fire is oozing from the ceiling as I enter. He's not here, but I expected that. There's a panic room in the closet. I tear the doors off like they're made of candy. The boss is inside, clinging to two barely-clad women, all three are screaming.

"Oh, good. It's just you, Tanktannica. You've come to get me out?"

"You have the passcodes to the treasure vault?" I coldly survey the situation.

"I have my assets in off world accounts. We'll be fine."

"We're going to need traveling money."

"That… is not the worst idea." The aging drug lord contemplates. "You know, for a robot you're actually pretty smart."

I'm stooped low in the room already and my head is getting hot, so I decided to ignore the jab. "Let's go."

I escort the three frightened fleshlings across the mansion to the northern wing. Snivvling and pitiful creatures, they cower at every gunshot and missile impact. These are no warriors.

We find the outer limits if the northern wing already looked. Opportunistic vultures. Further in though is another story. Several small lock boxes are set into the walls, lining the hall leading to the main vault. It is one of these smaller ones the boss opens, pausing just long enough to hide the code from us.

"Alright. Let's get out of here." He holds up a small bag of gold coins. There's barely enough there to buy me a meal.

"We need more than that. Open the big one." I actually need him for this one. I can't get into the vault without the passcodes, and I can't blast my way through the door. It would take a ship's cannon to blow your way in.

"What are you talking about? This is fine. Let's go." He insists.

"I said, open it. I am not asking." My cannon flips down over my shoulder.

"What are you going to do?" He scoffs. "Shoot me?"

"No. Not you."

An interesting fact about organics is they are comprised mostly of water. I don't know if why, maybe the gods' idea of some perverse joke. But this means if you can rapidly heat one to the congruous temperature, the water in their cells to turn gaseous, expanding rapidly till they literally burst.

The boss, now wearing the visceral gore of what is left of his girlfriend simply stares in disbelief. His other girlfriend begins screaming. The noise is grating to me, so I shoot her too.

"Open the vault, please. I'm not going to ask again." I turn my cannon on him now.

"No, no, please don't." He begins sobbing, now wearing little bits of both women. I make a circle gesture and he complies, keying the vault open. I step past the blubbering man, eager to be done with this.

Inside is more gold than I thought this planet capable of producing. Coins of silver, titanium, precious stones, they all litter the floor, heaped into piles. There's a full suit of ceremonial armor, obviously stolen. There's some expensive stuff in here, but by knowledge is limited to paintings and sculptures. The truly choice pieces are in the art. I grab a few items, two paintings, a statue, and pack one of my storage compartments with gold jewelry, just for good measure.

When I turn back the boss has sealed the door behind me. Stupidly, the hinges are on this side. I'm almost tempted to sit here and wait out the invasion, but no, the looters will be here soon enough.

I don't even need to blow anything up to escape. I simply remove the pins from the hinges and lift. Seconds later and I am outside, standing over the goss and his prone form, holding the door above my head. Truthfully it is a bit heavy even for myself, but it sure makes a stunning image.

"That was a dumb move." I strain.

"What… what are you going to do to me?"

There comes a rumble and I can tell the floor above ours has just collapsed. I am out of time.

"To you? Nothing. You can stay here and rot for all I care." With a heave I hurl the discus, knocking a hole in the outer wall. Outside is even more bedlam than I left it half an hour ago. "I have to go see a man about a painting."

I leave the boss laying there and never look back. The military seems mostly to ignore me as a sprint across the yard. I give them no reason to attack me and plenty of reasons not to follow. Within fifteen minutes I am halfway to the spaceport. I need to hock these pieces and buy my way onto a ship. This planet is so backwards they still use solid fuel booster rockets. It will take at least a week before I can get to the hubworld. But I'm going for it. For the first time in a very long time, I feel alive.

"Hang on, baby. Mamma's coming." I whisper to my mythical Les Orbus painting. Now all I have to do is get there.


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

The bar is dimly lit, but not in the way I am used to. This is ambiance, not a broken light in disrepair. The seats are upholstered in red velvet, and a band plays gently in the background. Fury made deals and arranged meetings from Earth to Yuorst, but this is by far the fanciest place I've been.

Now that I'm back in Dominion space, there are a lot more Cybertronians. Not quite Transformer territory, but we're getting close. I need to be careful.

The maitre'd, a tall Lithone, leads me to a booth and then leaves once I seat myself. He didn't even take my order. I haven't eaten in over a week. Do I really look that bad off? I know I'm not pretty, but you would think he would have the common courtesy of bringing a glass of Energon. So here I sit, unsure of what I'm even doing here. Now the waiting begins.

Why did I come? I don't belong here. I belong on the ground, with dirt between my treads and pottery shards in my knuckles. I love history and books, and if pressed, my size makes me a halfway passable bodyguard. I am way out of my league here, and everyone around me knows it.

I take a slow and easy glance around the club. Not your average watering hole, as evident by the number of patrons this time of day. Normal dive bars and sleaze halls have people day drinking at all hours, but don't really get jumping till it's dark and out the riffraff emerge. The club, though, has a fair number of beings in it. I suppose that's part of being a hub world; beings always coming and leaving.

Some fleshie in a skimpy blue cocktail dress is crooning to a rendition of DeSoto's Octo in D Minor, a few captivated males closer to the stage drooling away. I finish my survey. There are two heavies near the back, but they are clearly hired muscle for someone. Not anyone about to start a fight, I hope. I could take them, but I would make a mess of the club.

I continue to wait. And wait. The readout for my left fuel cell silently click over to yellow. I'm hungry. And itchy. And anxious. None of this feels right, none of it makes sense. I have no plan. I'm used to that, but I have no backup, and that is something I don't like. So I get to see the Les Obus. Let's even say I can purchase it on the pittance I brought with me. Then what? I have no way off world. Even if I did, I have no place to go. I had to sell my apartment just to get here. I could always steal it, I suppose. I've spent most of my life tomb raiding and killing, when I haven't been battling Autobots and killing. There is surprising overlap in my skill set.

The door opens, and I know instantly this is the bot I've been sent to meet. Tall, silver, Cybertronian, he walks with the gait of a commander and the grace of a dancer, a flowing red cape billowing behind. He's got a Sky Raider body, a few generations out of date, but he carries himself with such an air of confidence and superiority that I really doubt upgrading has ever crossed his mind. He wears the sword on his hip as an extension of himself. I have no doubt he could cut me to pieces before I could even get a shot off. A brilliant Decepticon brand is emblazoned on his chest, as much a weapon as the sword at his hip. He wields it with honor; I hide mine in shame. In short, he is everything I am not.

He walks straight to my table. No subterfuge, no veiled threats. He offers a curt, polite bow.

"Madam." He smiles. A deep, rich smile designed to entice and put one at ease. A smile that never reaches his eyes. He's been practicing.

"'lo," is all I can offer in reply. I am shy, terribly shy. I've had trouble dealing with these types. Fury used to handle all the negotiations. For decades all I had to do was sit back, keep my sensors on full and look pretty. As pretty as I could look. It wasn't a bad life. I never went hungry, there was always a rotating cast of colorful characters, and I got to lay my mitts on all the antiquities and books I wanted. I only had to put up with the abuse.

Well, Fury left me in a crumpled, crying mess with my teeth in my hands one too many times. So I left a dirk in his processor. As a result, now I have to do the negotiations. But that doesn't help the shyness problem.

"Garcon!" The silver bot sits down across from me. I am not even a blip on his radar as the maitre'd returns. "A bottle of your finest Ixkyack ambrosia. And," he eyes me for a moment. "Two plates of stabilized energon crystals. I will have mine uncut."

"Very good, sir."

"Now then." He turns his full attention on me. "Let's get a good look at you."

I don't like being stared at, so I stare right back. This seems to amuse him as he removes his gloves. Angorian leather. Tiny creatures no more than a finger's breadth across at their largest. He must have wiped out an entire population procuring enough hides to tailor those gloves.

The starring gets old fast, but I know enough to recognize this to be a test. So I look closer, focus on the details. He's not as polished as he lets on. The edges of his cape are tattered and frayed, while the gloves went out of style almost before I came online. He hasn't had a new paint job in a while. Most of the shine is little more than wax. He is covered in more scars than high class bots usually are. One of his optics is newer than the other, the colored glass doesn't quite match up.

He has seen better days. And suddenly I realize: I can take him. I'm bigger and stronger and younger than he is. And just as quickly as that realization dawns on me, the second follows: if he knows that I know, he'd kill me. I need to let him have the upper hand. I urge the panic back down as our meals arrive.

"Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?" My host asks. I nod, my mouth full of energon. The ambrosia is putting me more at ease than I care for, but I don't mind. It's been a long time since I've eaten anything this decadent. "Excellent. I know the chef personally. A little one-armed Autobot. We were, how you might say, acquainted in the past. Sadly, he never grew that arm back." He has hardly touched his plate. though his drink has been refilled thrice now.

"So," I wipe away the sauce from my mouth without the least attention to etiquette. "You sent the message? You have a Les Obus?"

"Straight to business, I see. Don't you wish to know my name?" He smiled.

"No. The painting?"

He sighs, pulling a parcel from a pocket in his cape. "You young bots have no sense of presentation."

I lay my hands on the brown paper, not wanting to believe it was real. With shaky breath and steady hand, I unwrap the priceless masterpiece.

Words fail.

He laughs at my gobsmacked state. "I assume you will need to authenticate it, of cour-"

"It's real."

That brings him up short. "Are you sure?" I watch his eyes narrow. He leans in slightly. Another test.

"I have never been more sure of anything. Voyeur in Steel is a masterpiece, in the truest sense if the word. Observe the delicate brush strokes. Shift your optics through the spectrum. See how the colors dance? First in UV, then in gamma. You can only see the starfield in x-ray. There has never been a painter like Les Obus before."

"Nor will there be again." He seems pleased, going back to his amber wine.

I spend a few more precious moments with the painting, ever so gently caressing it with my oversized fingers. I am a true voyeur in steel. I sigh, rewrap the painting with care, and regretfully pass it back. He seems to have forgotten about it by now.

"Mmm, no. That's yours." He downs his glass.

"What?"

"That is yours. My gift to you."

"I.. are… I don't know what to say. Are you sure?"

He nods curtly, as if deciding on his soup choice. "Keep it. I have more."

"You have- you have more?!"

"But of course. It is only a small part of my collection, and I could think of no better way to draw you out. Consider it a reward for following the, oh, what do the humans call it? The bread crumb trail."

I stare at him, utterly speechless. "Who are you?"

"Is that really so hard to figure out? My dear child, where have you been? I am Lord Blade, first of his name, heir to house Enix, Lord of Stranglehold, Commander of the Slaughterhouse Battalion, and rightful claimant of the Decepticon throne."

"You… you're… You're royalty?"

"And all the lands, titles and holdings that that entails." He seems quite pleased with himself.

"You're Blade. I read all about you. You were first in the breach of Cadmius V. You held Kaon against orbital bombardment for months until relief arrived. You faced the Mad Titan of the Rust Sea with nothing but a single sword."

"Yes, I know. I was there." He smiles, the memories bringing a bitter scowl to his face.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, that is very simple. I'm searching for you… Tanktanica."

I hate that name. I've always hated that name. I didn't ask for it; it was thrust upon me along with my first fight, just as my freedom and family had been stripped away. Everyone always remembers the glories of the Cybertronian battles and of the core worlds. No one remembers where PX409M-7 was, let alone cared. A world so backwater the most advanced species in the galaxy hadn't even bothered to name the planet. But I remember.

I will never forget the fields of fire, running scared for my life as my squad faced off against three divisions of howling Autobot strike fighters. I still hear the screams in my audio receptors. I will forever feel the burning sensation as my cannon overheated, but I kept on firing, my treads crushing the exoskeletons of my fallen brothers, and the melted husks of my enemies. I earned my name on some backwater world that night, fighting a war that didn't need to be fought. I earned that name, but I didn't have to like it.

"Don't call me that." I look away.

"Why not? It is your name, isn't it?" Blade askes with just the faintest accent. High Cybertronian? It was too upper class to be Polyhex. He sounds a bit like the old Terran actor Vincent Price.

"Because I don't like it!" I snap. I know I'm riding a line here. I can't lose this painting to my stupid motormouth.

"Very well. What shall I call you then?"

"... Tanktanica." I whisper in defeat, thinking of nothing better. Your name is your name, for better or worse. The worst part is, I don't even remember my real name any more.

"Very well." He smiles, bemused. "I suppose at this point you must be wondering why I lured you here."

"The thought barely crossed my mind." I lie. In reality, it was all I've thought of for the past week. He can apparently see through that as well. We're off to a wonderful start.

"I have been searching sorry someone. Someone very specific, with a unique set of skills. I believe you to be that someone." He gestures his fork towards me.

I sigh, already resigned to my fate as a bruiser. "Who do you need killed?"

His laugh catches me completely off guard. It is an open and hearty laugh, filled with genuine joy; an emotion I, myself, have not experienced in quite a while. Even our waiter seems surprised.

"'Who do I need killed?' Oh, my dear child, that is amusing. Forgive me, I have not laughed like that in quite some time. 'Who do I need killed' indeed. If I desired the death of some poor wretch, they would already have passed from this world. Listen here, miss 'Tanktanica." I am quite skilled and knowledgeable about a good many things. That is my job. But killing? That is my _passion!_

"No, what I need from you is far more special. From you I ask for something no one has ever asked for before. I need your mind. I need your skill. I know you sit up at night painting, studying, wondering why you are alone. you question if your interests are wrong, yet obsessed over ancient tomes and pottery shards all the same. You may name the twelve textile types from the pre-industrial Sarvanas, but you can't be a soldier to save your life.

"That is what I need from you. Should I require it, I could summon an army to my side, each willing to kill and die for me. But from you and you alone, I require something far more precious. I need _your_ passion."

His eyes draw me in. His wit and intellect captivate my attention, yes, and his voice is as smooth as polished chrome. But his eyes testify to the truth in his words. I hate killing. I just never could acquire the taste for wanton destruct. But Blade truly loves it. He isn't some thug, or soldier, or even a serial killer. No, he is an artist, mastering in the true beauty of death. And he needs me, and me alone.

In that moment, I am transported back in time. I feel a stirring in my breast I have not heard since I was a young girl, listening to Megatron's impassioned oration in the slave mines of Kallis.

Then, as now, I feel my fate seal around me. I would follow this Decepticon to the edges of the galaxy and beyond.

"So," he smiles. "What say you?"

But of course, he knows my answer already. He knew it as soon as he walked in the door. Sooner even. Hell, he knew it before I ever hopped the shuttle, before I even received his message. He has been watching me for months. He has played me from the very beginning. And yet, I give him my answer all the same.

"When do we leave?"


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

"And this would be the Grand Hall. It is clearly much less grand since the, what we are calling, 'incident.'"

I look around, the polished stone rough and cracked. The roof is entirely missing, and there are signs of fire and blaster marks everywhere. It would have made a fine place for a desperate last stand from invading hordes. If there had been invading hordes, that is, and the Autobots hadn't simply bombarded the planet from orbit.

In fact, that is a trend I am noticing more and more as this tour continues. Stranglehold, I don't know if that is the name of the actual planetoid or simply this castle, suffered heavily under Autobot orbital bombardment. There is nothing left here to speak of; nothing grows, there is no atmosphere, and my RAD sensors are climbing higher than I am normally content with. The only thing still standing on this ruinous heap of a satellite is Blade's castle.

And what a castle it is. I have no idea who built it or how his family lineage acquired it, but at one time it would have been a beauty to behold. Carved into a small mountain and constructed of something closely resembling basalt or onyx, it comprised architectural elements from no less than seven different cultures. Three of whom were extinct long before the newest and highest parts of this structure were completed. Whoever built it had taken eons to do so.

Still, even in its current state, it managed to impress. The black polished stone on the floor had been inlaid with gold. The Jasper sounces stood cold and empty, mocked by ever-present universal track lighting. In fact, that was what I have been the least impressed by this far. Everything Blade has done to his home has been for practical purposes, not aesthetic. The alloy mesh crisscrossing the walls, the catwalks installed in the ceiling, even the lighting. They all stand out like scabs on an already wounded animal. And Blade paid it no heed. It was a strange dichotomy for someone who prided himself so much on appearance.

"And here we have the library." He said, taking a sharp left through two ancient wooden reliefed doors that have survived remarkably well.

"You've read all these?" I fingered a few of the pages presented to me. While the room is not massive, it does contain enough floor to ceiling bookcases to keep me suitably impressed. But I don't want him to know that.

"Well, not all of them." He smiles at me before glancing around. "Some of them are in greek."

We stand in silence for a few moments while I take in the sights. I don't mind silence; being alone never bothered me. Blade, however, is growing more agitated as our tour progresses. I don't know if he is irritated because I'm not impressed enough, or if something else is bothering him. All I knew was that I didn't want to be trapped in a small room like this with him if I could help it. I start backing slowly to the door before he turns and strides out first, his cape smacking me in the face.

The next two hallways are so dark I need to turn my headlamps on to see. The state of disrepair makes me regret that decision. It is a low slung, darkened passage. I can hear water dripping from somewhere, and I see something scurry out of the light. We are obviously in what used to be the hall of portraits. I pass generation after generation of great men, descending through the eons. The older ones are rotting in their frames. The newer ones have been deftly slashed with a knife. I can't tell who these regal rulers once were, only that they are all organic, and none are Decepticon.

The last hall is capped by another set of double doors. They are smaller than the previous pair, but these have clearly seen recent use. The scuff marks on the floor indicate the hinges were broken but have since been repaired. Blade pauses for a sense of dramatas.

"And now, madam, the crown jewel of our tour."

The room is much more in line with what I have been expecting this whole time. Clean, well lit, without any sign of disrepair. The stone work is closer to sand or alabaster, light and airy. The lanterns glow red. And strewn all around the room, from every culture imaginable, lay a collection of priceless artifacts.

Front and center, however, sprawled across a 8th century settee, lay a black and red femmebot. Stripped of her torso plate from the waist up, in what was clearly a failed attempt at seduction, she wore Virantian glimmer shawls draped across her lithe form. While some part of me wanted to question her presence, I was more struck by the fact that her style was at least three centuries out of fashion, and she wasn't even wearing the shawls correctly. Virantian shawls went on the arms, and we're worn by the male of the species. The short blade in her leg holster meant that I was in no hurry to correct her though.

"Well. Looks like you're back, finally." She stretches like a cat. Her voice is less melodic than it is steel on slate. But she is sincere. That had to count for something. "Oh. You brought your thing."

"My dear, what are you doing here?" Blade takes a step forward. I find a sudden interest to the tapestry on the wall and look away

"Waiting for you, master. I prepared for your return. I had thought that perhaps you might-"

"I told you never to enter without my permission."

"Oh course. I know. But I had thought, given the circumstances-"

"Out."

There it was. I knew there was something off about this whole setup. The lone Decepticon stick doesn't jive with the Lord of the castle persona. I had been expecting servants, slaves, but apparently that means a love interest. Some Cybertronians have taken a special kink to emulating organic sexual practices, specifically those of humans and Nebulons. I have never felt the desire to debase myself in such a manner, but apparently these two did. Or at least her; Blade doesn't seem to be into it.

The femme glowers at me as she storms towards the doors. Blade raised his hand, remembering me almost as an afterthought.

"Oh, before you go. Let me introduce the two of you. Tanktanica, meet my right hand, Mischief. You two will be sisters in arms from now on."

I tower over most bots. Other femmes barely come up to my chest. I'm used to it. But this one sizes me up like I'm nothing. I, in turn, stare her down. It is unlikely I will see her again with quite so much exposed and so little armor, so I try and pick out the weak points. What I thought to be a single knife holstered turns out to be five, followed closely by a sixth. Then I spot a seventh, at the small of her back. I feel my cannon tingle. She would have more to worry about catching a virus in her state of undress than anyone doing her harm, armor or no. What becomes very clear to me very quickly is she is everything Blade is not. He has style while she wears her apathy like a shield. He is graceful, while she carries the stance of a bar fighter. He is calculating. She is just psychotic.

Still. I try and make the best of it. No sense in offending her if I'm going to be working with her.

"Hi, I'm Tanktanica." I offer my hand.

"My, my. She's a big one, isn't she?" Mischief stares at my hand and smiles with all the malice of a cat meeting a mouse for the first time. Except I'm the mouse. "I'm sure we'll have lots of fun together."

I'm lucky she doesn't take it off at the wrist. As it is, she turns on her high heels and marches from the room.

"Don't believe anything he says. He lies." She is in the second hallway before the door even shuts.

"She seems nice." I offer to no one in particular. Blade ignores me, engrossed in a geological scan.

I begin walking the treasure room, as I have decided to call it. A little known fact about archeology; most of the studies revolve around pottery, as that is the most effective method of dating the primitives work. But I don't like pottery, I like art. I love studying it and restoring it. I'm a fair hand with a brush myself, though I am not a master painter.

There's enough art here to keep a nerd like myself entertained for months. Sculptures, paintings, a few bronze statues, Blade seems to have collected it all. A thousand different cultures from a hundred different worlds, all just piled up and collecting dust, waiting for me. No time like the present, I suppose.

I begin shifting things into piles, cleaning as I go. Many of the artifacts are in fair to midland condition, though there are a few gems here and there. I pick up a Vykine hunting mask.

"That's a Vykine terror mask from Ururos IV." Blade says from behind me without looking up. "I was on patrol with my platoon when a group of them got the drop on us. He was the tribal chieftain, and fought with more courage than most. I rewarded him with a clean death and remembering his peoples."

"What happened to his people?"

"I wiped them all out. But I remember them every time I look at the mask. Come look at this." Blade gestures.

"What are we looking at?" I ask, trying my best to saunter like Mischief had. I fail spectacularly. Fortunately Blade doesn't even look up.

"You tell me."

"Aerial photos. Class M planet. Looks like it hasn't been mechaformed yet, so my guess is it is closer to the outer rim of the arm than the inside. Plantlife, so we know it can sustain life."

"Yes, yes. I could have a drone tell me that. Look closer."

I glance his way. He is watching me, not the map. This is another test. He wants me to find something, yet I don't know what. Alright, I'll play his game. I turn back to the map and shift my sensors through the spectrum. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. X-ray comes out black, gamma is gold and green. On a whim I filter through GPR. My radar picks up faint outlines, indicating buried stones. I switch back to white light and lean in closer.

"There," I point. "That looks to be a structure of some kind."

Blade smiles at me, and this time I actually believe him. "Good. This is PX-4329. It consisted of a race of avians that built an empire when our ancestors were climbing out of the primordial muck, and you and I were but glints in the allspark."

Given the state of the ruins, or lack thereof, I believe him. "So what does that have to do with us?"

"Patience." He holds up a hand. "I have come to believe that there is an artifact buried with the remains of their temple. I want you to get it for me. The planet is abandoned, so there shouldn't be any trouble at all. Still, I want to make this as painless as possible. You, Mischief and I will perform a high altitude jump, retrieve the artifact and then return to base. How does that sound to you?"

"No issue here." I lie. I am not a fan of heights. Or falling. Or crashing. Generally anything involving the air and my death, I am opposed to quite strongly. But there's no need for him to know that. "You still haven't told me what we're searching for exactly."

"I shall leave that discovery to you." He walks me to the door. "There is a tome in the library. I have also prepared a list of files for you. They are in the database. Sparrow may grant you access."

"Sparrow?" I ask as he opens the door for me.

There before me in the hallways stands one of the more peculiar bots I have seen all day. She is short, even for a Decepticon, barely coming up past my thigh. Lithe and small, I am almost tempted to call her girlish. The oversized data jack on her right arm appears out of place. She blends in well, the steel blue and scuffed sea green if her paint allowing her to sink away into the shadows, if it hadn't been for all those hot pink accents. She stares up at me with a face plated vissage and the cruelest green optics I have ever seen.

"Tanktanica, this is Sparrow, our communications and tech expert. Sparrow? Sparrow!" He calls to her. The little femme never turns her gaze from me. She must have given some kind of non verbal signal though, becal Blade continued his instructions. Whatever gesture she made managed to escape me. "Sparrow, would you be good enough to see miss Tanktanica to her quarters please? Thank you. And now, my dear, this is where I leave you for the night."

"Thank you so much. For everything. Really." I find myself suddenly overcome with a week's worth of emotions. I begin to choke up. "I don't know what I would have do everything if you hadn't come along. I'm so grateful. I mean it."

"Oh no, my dear, it is I who should be thanking you. For it is as I told you." He smiles a practiced grin as he shuts the door between us, his optics foreboding. "I expect only your best."

I exhale a breath I didn't even know I had been holding. Blade projects such a powerful personality, it is almost difficult to be around him. I am beginning to see why Mischief is obsessed with him. I turn to say as much to Sparrow, but she's already gone, walking down the hallway. I jog after my escort.

"So, we're going to be working together then I guess?" I offer. She doesn't even look up. "Where are you from? Have you been working for Blade long?" Still no response. "Has Mischief?"

She still says nothing, but the twinkle in her eye as she glances up at me says it all. Even I, who prefer books and paintings to people, am able to tell there is more between those two girls than first appearances may suggest.

My guess would be amused hostility. Decepticon females experience so called "bitchiness" in a much higher percentage than their male counterparts of the population. Behavioral scientists are still trying to figure out why we are wired like that. But it has the potential to cause some serious problems; hence why most teams voluntarily limited themselves to a single female. I could only trust Blade knew what he was doing with three of us here.

We walk on in silence. It has been my experience that the communication styles bots tend to be the quietest. I've heard Soundwave could go breems between sentences. I suspect Sparrow could put him to shame. She hasn't said a single word yet, and somehow I doubt she will. Perhaps she can't. Maybe she suffered some injury in the war. Maybe she was just wired that way. I don't know and I don't intend to ask.

We arrive at what I assume are my quarters, because they certainly aren't the library. Sparrow palms the door code for me, spins on her heels and walks off. Not as graceful or powerful as her comrades, but she is still an inspiration to see move. I truly am the odd man out with my massive, clunky body.

"Thank you!" I call after her. I don't expect a reply and I don't get one.

To call my room spartan does a disservice to the art of spaciousness. There is a leak in between two of the massive black stone blocks, with the water dripping down onto the floor. Fortunately a rubbish pile seems to be soaking most of it up. I duck entering, and the ceiling is only slightly taller than the doorway. I can stretch out my arms in any direction and touch two walls. There is a small bed on the north wall, designed for an organic a third my size, along with an accompanying writing desk. This place isn't even wired for power. I won't be recharging here tonight.

Slowly, and with great reverence, I hang Voyeur in Steel on the wall. The colors wash over me, cleansing me like a rosary, purifying my spark. The only spot of color in my drab life, it is the center of my world, gifted to me by my benevolent patron. Sitting down on the creaky, but clearly well constructed, bed, I bring my knees to my chin and contemplate everything that has brought me to this point this far. I went from nothing, to nothing. I am still me, and nothing will fix that. I am in yet another hellhole, on yet another burnt out world. And I start to cry. Because this time, in this place, with my Les Obus shining down on me, something is different.

This time, I am no longer alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

"Sparrow!" Blade screams. The sound reverberates off the stone walls in the Grand Hall. I've only been here a month or so, but even I can hear the pain in his voice. And the panic. And the rage.

"Sparrow!" He bellows again. Only the fireplace crackles in response.

"Maybe she's out?" I struggle through the door. Mischief may be bleeding all over my back, but she's still surprisingly heavy.

"She's here." Blade manages to make it to one of the columns, leaning on it heavily for support. He has several lacerations and will need to retire that cape. "Slag it all."

I can only make it to the couch before I throw Mischief down onto it. The helicopter girl slumps over, threatening to break the wooden frame. Her optics glass over as she flirts with stasis lock, her mouth ajar. That arm isn't just going to heal itself this time. I know I should be more concerned, but my own systems are redlining.

"Not her." She coughs at me. Well, at least we know she's alive. I turn to say as much to Blade when Sparrow appears behind me and scares me half to death. "I hate the little bitch." Mischief may have a point I can soon relate to.

"Ah, there you are." I notice Blade has wrapped his cape around himself. Clearly he doesn't want Sparrow to see the damage and appear in a weakened position. So why doesn't he care about me seeing him? "Take Mischief and get her stabilized. I know, you're a hacker, not a medic. I'm working on it. But right now you're the only one I can count on. It doesn't have to be perfect, just keep her alive."

Sparrow never says a word. She simply walks over to Mischief's prone form, wraps an arm under her shoulder, and lifts in one smooth motion. Mischief's feet trail behind. The sight is so absurd I want to laugh. Instead I find myself eyeing Sparrow as she marches up the stairs with a bot twice her size in tow. Just what is the little bit made out of?

"Oh, and Sparrow," she pauses as Blade watches her. "No modifications. Understand?"

Sparrow thinks about it. Her commanding officer of the Decepticon forces gives her an order, and the half pint has the nerve to stop and THINK about it. Then, she simply nods curtly and marches up the stairs, a writhing Mischief in tow.

Blade sighs and collapses, sliding down the column. I limp over to him. "You okay, boss?"

He stares up at me. "Do I look okay?"

No, he doesn't look okay. He looks tired. And old. Much older than he should. He looks like he needs to recharge for a week. The intelligence and charisma are still there, but they are buried by rage and weariness.

"You look like you need a drink." I reply with the safest answer I can find. He chortles, so it must not have been the wrong one. "Come on. I'll get the weld kit and patch you up." I pull him to his feet.

Five minutes later and I have half the sutures in place. My weld lines were never the cleanest, but they were better than bleeding out anyways. And Blade managed to get his drink. Ever the refined gentleman, he'd even had me retrieve his goblet. Most of the bots I grew up with would have just chugged it straight from the cube.

"Why doesn't Mischief like Sparrow?"

Blade smiles, his lips compress into a thin, hard line. "I think it is a fair bet to say that Mischief doesn't like anyone. Though, I will admit, she does hold a special contempt for Sparrow that she has for few others."

"Mischief says Sparrow attacked her."

"You need to learn that Mischief lies. Don't believe everything she says."

"What happened?"

Blade weighs his words carefully. Clearly I am not truly on the team yet, no matter what he says. "I am continually on the search for fresh, exceptional talent, as you know. For the longest time, it was just she and I. We we're the perfect duo. Then, some years back, she suggested holding a gladiatorial competition. She wanted a fight; a true fight, mind you. I required a communications and technical expert."

"You needed a hacker."

"Precisely. So I agreed. The rules were simple: one only had to touch me to join my team. 200 souls applied that day. I believe Mischief spared the killing blow for some 50 odd Decepticons."

"She let them live?"

"Hardly. They came at her in groups of fours and fives. She simply had neither the time nor dedication to finish them all all before some crawled out of the ring.

"At the end of the day I was resolved to leave empty handed. Again. Mind you, this was our third tryouts. I was beginning to fear I had trained my apprentice too well. Then Sparrow stepped into the ring. I knew instantly she was the one."

"How?" I finished the weld lines on his chest and arms, and now sat in rapt attention at his feet.

Blade smiles, amused at my question. "You've seen her. The ring had been filled all day with opponents who look like, well, you. Sparrow was a third their size. I knew she was either exceptionally skilled, or exceptionally crazy. Luckily for me, it turns out I was right on both counts.

"She walked calmly towards me. Mischief, however, charged. That was her undoing. You see, Sparrow simply hacked into the infrastructure of the building sector. The ground rippled, and cranes, earth movers and fiber cable came spilling forth. Mischief, the perfect killing machine, was left facing a losing battle against the unkillable. She ended up bound tightly in tentacles, while Sparrow walked right past her and simply tapped me once. And that was it."

I nodded. It all made sense. It also made me all the more cautious around Sparrow. Blade took another drink of wine.

"So, who was that blue bot today?"

"Beamer." The word comes out like a curse through gritted teeth. He grips the cup tighter, straining the rim.

"An old friend of yours?"

"Far from it. We are mortal enemies. The cur has my sword, and I have sworn a blood oath to retrieve it. That I do not yet possess it, is a testament to his mediocre skill, and my overwhelming graces." He fingers the tassel on the pommel at his hip. There was nothing in the hilt, I'd seen his blade shatter against Beamer's earlier that afternoon.

"Were they expecting us?"

Blade signed. "No, that was just happenstance and extraordinarily poor luck. The fool and his band of rogues happened to be there when we'd jumped."

The fight had been quick but far from bloodless. We were outgunned and overwhelmed at touch down. Still, Blade ordered to continue the hunt for the artifact. I was the heavy guns, but I was also the only one who had the faintest clue what to look for. I never even came close to the ruins before Blade ordered the retreat.

"My knee servos are still killing me."

"Yes, I expect that it from the impact. We should get you some upgrades."

I cover myself even though he isn't even looking in my direction. The thought of another being loose in my body fills me with dread. "But I like the way I am now."

"As do I. But I think you'll agree your alt mode is a bit… Orwellien. I believe that you will find a hover tank suits you just as well. It will remove the strain from your systems, and perhaps give you a chance to keep up with the fliers."

"Maybe you're right." I sigh.

"Oh course I am."

He pets my head absentmindedly while he draws his broken sword from the scabbard. I admire him deeply. His enamor draws me near. I am like a puppy; so starved for affection even abuse feels like praise. I understand this, but my feelings remain all the same. I was the same way with Fury but not as intense. I expect this to end just as well.

"So what do we do now?"

"Now? Now you do what I pay you to do, and find me another artifact on the list. We hunt it, we find it, and we bring it back here."

"What if your friend shows up again?"

"Beamer? What if Beamer shows up? If Beamer shows up…" Blade tosses the broken knife in the air and catches it by the blade. One quick flick of the wrist later, and it is buried to the hilt in a wood hune mantle. "I'll kill him."


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

It has been six months since I arrived and have yet to decisively prove myself. I have been at this for weeks, pouring over every scroll and tome I can lay my hands on. I have read books a dozen times over and still come up with the same results. I have dug deep into the archives of the web. I have asked at back doors in alleys, at libraries, in bath houses, taverns and whorehouses from here, halfway to Cybertron. And yet I still have nothing to show for it. At this point I still don't even know what I'm looking for.

Okay, it's time to take a step back. I lean back in my chair and rub my optics, trying to suppress this migraine threatening to split my circuits open. What exactly is it I'm looking for? Blade has given me very little intel on this matter, trusting me to figure it out on my own. Thus far I've been a disappointment to him. I don't know how much longer I can stay in his good graces if I don't deliver. The problem is I don't know what to give him.

Every search seems to revolve around a few common variables. He's looking for an ancient civilization. Old, far older than anything that I've dealt with before, rivaling the dawn of Cybertron. All of the civilizations are currently extinct, and have been for millennia. And they were all centered on this quadrant of the galaxy. But I still don't know why.

When you're dealing with stories this old, this far out on the outskirts, things stop being facts and start becoming myths. I have found more legends and heroes then I have actual cold, hard proof. Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way? Maybe I need to start looking at the myths as though they are facts, rather than the other way around. The problem is, it's hard to tell what is reality and what is a legend.

While I did not grow up religious, I have never been as staunchly secularist as most of the companions I've known in my life. I've never doubted that there was a god. He just never seemed to have a particular place in my life. And while some bots still decry non-clerical and profane matters, seeing an actual god rip my home planet apart was enough to convince me.

Maybe that's the clue. Maybe that's what Blade has been looking for. After Unicron showed up, everyone was in a tizzy to find the next, best super weapon to stop Robo Satan from returning and chowing down on us all. Rumors abounded of mad scientists, and super weapons, with the power to rend planets asunder. But we are not the first to have faced Unicron, nor can we be the first to have stopped him, or there would be nothingness. Someone must have faced him before, and found a way to stop him. Everyone seemed to have their own wild stories to follow. I never put much stock in those myself, but I was able to make a tidy profit preying on the unsuspecting fools in search of a wild goose chase. I'm not proud to have peddled my archaeological skills this way, but it kept a roof over my head.

Maybe. Maybe that's it. I start thinking harder, thinking of all the creation myths I've heard, from a hundred different civilizations. We know the universe had a beginning. It was not, and then it was. And as much as some would like to dispute that fact, it's difficult to get around. This is one of the few areas where science and religion overlap. After that things start to get a little hazy.

Our own sacred texts tell us that Primus and Unicron, two brothers locked in an eternal battle destroy their own world. And in return, from that destruction, came our universe. Religion tells that Primus then traveled the universe seeding this blank canvas with life. And wherever he went, Unicron was not far behind, twisting and corrupting the very life that his brother took pleasure in creating. Science tells us that one by one, ancient civilizations rose to power. And one by one, each fell. There's a definite line. A pattern that can be traced from one end of the galaxy to the other. So if there is a trail, there must also be some evidence left behind.

I Swipe through my systems and pause at an app Electric lent me. She's a good colleague, even if she is an Autobot. She was the only one who cared enough to help me get away from Fury before he ended up killing me. I need to write her, but I have been putting it off. I already know what she will have to say about Blade.

I open my onboard star map and a hologram of the galaxy twinkles to life before me, slowly rotating around the galactic center. Here we are, and there is Cybertron. That twinkling star over there is Sol, around which Earth orbits. I've never been but I hope one day to see it for myself.

This is all well and good, but I rarely deal with the present. My interests lie in the past. With a flick of the wrist I turn the dial and the galaxy rotates backwards at an alarming rate. Spinning faster and faster in reverse, I watch the eons tick away. We're going back now. Back before Optimus and Megatron. Back before Sentinel Prime. To the feudal ages, when the Quintessons still ruled Cybertron. I watch Earth change from a blue-green Jewel to a burning right husk of nothing but molten rock. I want Cybertron shrink in size, shrivel until it becomes the asteroid it was before we arrived. I watch galactic empires fall and rise, only to fall and rise once more. The stars change position. Some blink back into existence where they haven't been for millions of years. I slow the dial down now, slower and slower. I'm getting close.

The Quintesson Dominion shrinks in size. I never knew just how much like a virus they were in those early years. There is a reason they are referred to as the Oldest Race. Quintessa had once been the glistening jewel of the cosmos. In some remote parts of the galaxy, they are still worshiped as gods. In many trading centers, Quintessa is still the Lingua Franca for the common trading tongue. I never learned it myself. It is one of the few instances where we mechs can't be programed, we have to actually learn languages. Ancient Quintesson and modern Quintesson had a lingual will split shortly before the First Great War. As such, documents written in Ancient Quintesson are even more of a pain to read. But I make due.

Here we go. I pause the hologram, Letting the warm galaxy come to a complete stop. I am looking at a string of eight or nine planets, a small empire by today's standards, but at the dawn of creation it is an unprecedented feat. There's no name for the species that held these planets. It has been gone so long not even the wind remembers.

I can identify five planets that have currently been colonized. Anything on those worlds would have been discovered long ago. There are no records of any artifacts or dig sites on those worlds. Two of the other planets were destroyed between then and now. That leaves two. I need to track down what happened to them.

I put markers on the two worlds and set the timeline to play, going at much leisurely pace this time. Even so, I almost miss it. The northernmost world disappears. I have to backtrack twice just to find out what happened to it and almost laughed the irony of the situation. Vanished in an instant, gobbled up by the sun it was orbiting. Anything living on the world never have even known what hit it.

That ninth world though… I check the timeline. I'm about halfway back to present and still have a trace on it. It's drifted off, much further out of its orbit than it ever should have gotten, but it's still there. Maybe that's why there's no record of it; it just lay untouched by everyone almost since its inception.

I'm further along now. It has shifted orbit to another system, trading one sun for another. It's rare, but not unheard of, and at the galactic scale I am working with, it is to be expected sooner or later. It looks like it was picked up be a rogue sun. This makes it much harder to track. My star map is at best an estimate, established by the parameters I've put into it. And while I have a lot of older materials available to me to calibrate the timeline, if there was no one tracking the star, no people writing down its moments, then I am at the mercy of guesses. Never a good place to be.

There it is. I check the clock. Last confirmed sighting of the rogue star was some 50 years ago. Not perfect, but it'll have to do. The distance though. That will be the real problem. We're going to need a ship, and even so, it is well past the range of any viable space bridge I know of. I have no idea how long it will take to get there, but I can guarantee no one is going to like the number I provide. And still, there's no promise of a dead civilization on this planet, much less whatever it is that Blade is looking for.

I could go tell him now. I could rush excitedly to tell him I found a possibility. A clue. Or, I can keep digging. I can deliver a sure fire hit. I can make him proud of me. If one is good than three is better.

I power through my migraine and get back to work. I have never suffered from pride, but I allow myself to smile, just a little.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI**

Laser fire cracks overhead, too close for comfort. I returned fire with my 120mm, opening up with my 50. cal just for good measure. I haven't used my alt mode much since upgrading to a hover tank. Not having treads on the ground feels weird. It also plays havoc with my recoil. My shot goes wild, spinning me away from the action. I manage to pepper the turret with a few rounds from my top-mounted machine gun s I spin. The Autobot manning the station jumps left, diving away from the impending explosion that never comes. Obviously not a warrior. Good. That should make this easy.

We are two months out on our month-long exploratory mission. Given my research, I'd provided Blade with five possible locations containing the type of artifacts he desired. Never one to waste time, we prepared an expedition right away. We'd stolen a ship and set out that very night. It was supposed to be quick, easy, and most importantly, quiet.

We should have stolen a better ship. Sparrow spent most of her time repairing the engines, nav computer, flight guidance, and generally making sure we didn't explode after every jump. The perpetual foul mood on the hawk-faced femme only darkened with each passing day.

Mischief didn't fare much better. Our main pilot, she spent most of her time cursing the ship's specs and fighting the controls. The beast was sluggish and inept, with no weaponry. None of these were acceptable to her. She and Sparrow fought constantly, about everything from personal space to noise levels. But mostly they squabble about upgrades. Both of them argued with Blade about adding guns, but he curtly would not allow it. Less attention brought on ourselves, he said.

Blade, ever stoic, began to show signs of cracking. The constant bickering grated on him, and the low ceilings and cramped hallways meant he was always stooping. He and Mischief fought a lot. Sometimes he would grow frustrated and come see me, talk with me, but that would only antagonize her more. Sometimes, at night, when the power was down low and the ship was quiet, I could hear them in the ship's single cabin they shared. They would fight, shout, and scream. Sometimes Mischief's screams sounded entirely different, more agony and less angry. There were… other noises, too. Those nights were the worst. I didn't get much sleep then.

For my part, I was constantly hunched over at an even more extreme angle than my commander. I hadn't been built for space flight. Space necessitated as much compact room as possible. Only the best built Autobot deep space cruisers would comfortably hold larger passengers on their voyages. But those were designed by the best engineers, spent decades being built in space docks, and cost trillions of credits. None of which we had. This particular ship was never intended to carry bots of my stature. So I stayed hunkered in the cargo hold I had commandeered as my quarters. It was a long and lonely ride.

The first and third planets we visited turned up nothing. Broken, dried, crispy husks of worlds, whatever had once been there had been obliterated millennia ago. The destruction of war paled in comparison to that of time. The second stop had been a dusty moon of a gas giant. We spent a week there digging. We found evidence of civilization, but no artifacts. Everyone had been glad to get back to the ship after that excursion and pick grit from our servos. Back in deep space though, I found myself wishing I was back on the moon. I think I wasn't alone in that desire.

The fourth stop had turned out to be quite fruitful. A terra type world, we set the ship down on a grassy plain. Locating the most probable location, I dug while Blade supervised. Sparrow and Mischief sunbathed on top of the ship, calling a truce for the nonce. After only two days I began pulling out artifacts. Coins, potsherd and a few pieces of art. I handed Blade a tiny fertility carving. He examined it, and passed to to Mischief who promptly snapped it in half while looking me in the eye. I was more sad than angry; I found it charming and almost cute. It seemed a shame to destroy it without purpose.

Then, I found what we were looking for. A hundred and forty meters down, inside what I seemed assured was a burial tomb, I discovered a staff, a collection of odd, coin-like disks, and a jar containing a liquid. Passing them back up the shaft, I heard Blade exclaim his pleasure. By the time I reached the surface, the girls already had the coins scattered across the ground. Out of the fifty some-odd disks, three still contained a few drops of strange energy. They fit into the staff cleanly, but there seemed to be either not enough power left, or no way to access it. The jar all of us were afraid to open. My scanners were screaming. It was some radioactive isotope liquid that I could not identify, and it was leaking through a clay jar older than all of us combined. Blade promptly put that in stasis.

Another day cleaning up and we were back on the ship. I discovered Blade had no real desire for archaeological preservation; he just wanted to make sure I hadn't missed anything. As the freighter sluggishly pulled away out of the atmosphere, I reflected on my findings. I was able to locate and retrieve some of the artifacts Blade desired. That was certainly a feather in my cap, as they say. Whatever that means. I had also collected a few crates of art and artifacts. Blade also chose a few choice pieces for himself, but I didn't mind. He was letting me do what I loved. I spent the next few weeks in the hold, looking over my new collection.

Which brings me back to the fifth planet, Algorus IV, and our present situation. As the only inhabited world, we should have been expecting trouble. None of us counted on Beamer's team.

I can't identify the red Autobot, but I know an opening when I see one. Kicking in my thrusters, I glide in his direction. Off to my left, Blade is locked in furious combat with Beamer. I have no idea where Sparrow is. Mischief thunders past, a black and red angel of death, cackling like a madwoman. She rains down hellfire from above. It is a sound plan, as the Autobots have no air support whatsoever. I wish Blade would go vertical instead of following his personal vendetta, but far be it from me to tell him that.

The red Autobot dashes across the open ground. Mischief and I both catch him in a crossfire. His destruction seems assured. But as the dust clears, he is nowhere to be seen. The little bugger is faster than I counted on.

I'm taking fire from my left. The red bot has met up with two of the others, the cowboy and Beamer's consort. Rodeo and Polaris, I recall. The three of them are rushing over the hill.

"Blade!" I call. "They're getting away!"

"Don't let them! Shoot them!"

Mischief and I open fire again. Missiles come raining down on the Autobots from on high, while I fire and reload my main cannon as quickly as I can. The destruction is terrifying.

There's an explosion and a shriek of metal and Mischief falls from the sky. She's screaming, writhing in agony on her way down. She manages to transform, but that landing can't have helped anything. The poor thing. Her slim frame is more reminiscent of an Autobot than Decepticon; she isn't built to take that kind of punishment. It's enough to make me feel sorry for her. Almost.

My own engines cut out as I transform and check on Mischief. She'll live, but she needs a medic. I hoist her into my arms as gently as I can. Then I hear the rumble deep in my core, and the high pitched whine in my audio receptors.

"Dart." Mischief coughs, splattering blood across my face. She's fading in and out of consciousness, but she looks as scared as I feel.

The ruins of Algorus IV, I read, had been inhabited millennia ago. The avian race had been a minor power in the galaxy, only to be swallowed whole by the Quintessons, like most early civilizations. Due to the speed of their downfall, much of their archeological history has remained remarkably well preserved underground. The ruins at Terant Graa'nd, often called "The Stonehenge of the North", are a set of standing stones that once served as the religious and governmental seat of the ancient city. Partially excavated, the historical society had turned the site into a museum and heritage site for school aged children.

As a colonized world, Algorus IV maintains a loose trade agreement with Cybertronians, but not a true alliance. Therefore it had been the assessment of Blade that the only things standing in our way would be fleshy organic creatures. Not Autobots.

The Autobot cruiser currently bearing down on me is enough to make me curse Blade's poor decision. Beamer's ship, the Valiant, was been parked just over the hill. How Mischief had managed to miss it this entire time, I don't know. Though a lite cargo skiff, it is still a war vessel, and currently all of the Valiant's weaponry is bearing down right on little ol' me.

"Blade?!" I call, no small amount of panic in my voice. I shift the limp Mischief in my arms.

Blade doesn't look like he's in any shape to do anything. He and Beamer are a dozen yards apart, but that appears to be more of a reprieve than a victory. Blade's sword is cracked and won't last another round. He's already drawing a replacement, with some difficulty. His pinky digit is missing on his left hand, and his right appears damaged. Probably the tendon cable was cut when he received that nasty gash on his arm. Beamer is bleeding from several cuts of his own, but he is still holding Blade's favorite sword. He also appears to be bandaging himself with strips from Blade's cape. There's no sign of the rest of it.

"Sparrow." Blade barks. "Take the ship."

Sparrow comes from nowhere, a teal streak across the battlefield. Finding a makeshift ramp, she goes airborne, landing on the hull of the ship in a classic superhero pose. I question what the tiny bot can do when prehensile, mechanical tentacles sprout from her back and begin burrowing into the ship, hacking the systems.

I've heard of a few spy masters with this ability, able to control appendages with their mind, hacking systems remotely. In the darkest and often drunkest corners of taverns, they are regarded as alien by xenophobic allies and enemies alike. After the Second Great War, many were hunted down and killed. Treated as spies, mutes and traitors, the line was hunted to near extinction. In one particular pub, I know for a fact they have an archaic, rusting tentacle hanging above the bar as a trophy. Rumors abound of primitive practices involving cannibalism; of enhancing one's programing skills by consuming the essence of a rare intelligence bot. There aren't many spymasters left. Sparrow is certainly the only one I have ever met. Aside from the most famous Soundwave, she may very well be the last of her kind.

Watching her work, I begin to understand why people fear them. The ship lists to the left, the cannon inoperative. Green traces of light etch themselves into the golden steel of the hull, radiating out from the Decepticon. More and more tentacles slam into the plating, speeding the entire process. I watch Rodeo struggle with the controls through the bridge's window, even as smoke pours from the console, filling the cockpit. The hatch opens, and Polaris steps out to dislodge their unwelcome guest. A quick flick with a tentacle and she is airborne.

The ship slams Into the standing stones before heading my way. I start running. My comrade has managed to disable a vessel 50, maybe 100 times her own size, yet she has little more control over it than a flea does on a dog's back. I throw myself to the ground on top of Mischief as the ship flies over, thruster wash peeling my paint and nearly throwing me backwards.

I look up. The ship is now headed skyward, and all the Autobots have bailed out. Sparrow holds on tight, a writhing mass of arms and nightmares. My optics don't like looking at where the tentacles meet her back. It makes my vision fuzzy; It makes me queasy.

Then, she lets out a sound. Such a terrible sound, the screeching of pain and agony. It takes time before I realize what it is. Mischief gets there before I do.

"By the Pit. She's laughing!"

I have lived maybe a quarter of a lifetime. But I will never, for the rest of my days, forget this sound. The sickening, grinding screech of pain and despair, twisted into all the laughter that malice can birth. Even while laughter fills the air, every hoarse intake of air testifies that this is wrong. I glance at Mischief and see she is as terrified as I am. We have lived with, worked along side and shared meals with this tiny femme, only to discover she is nothing she seems to be. I've never wondered what is behind that faceplate. Now I can't stop thinking about it.

This is an old god, one of Primus' forgotten children.

She is an Angel of Death.

The ship crashes on the other side of the hills. I suddenly realize the battle has drawn to a stand still. Everyone is staring at the place where the Valiant and Sparrow vanished from view. Apparently I am not the only one with this sick feeling in my core, as we have just seen something wholly unnatural and abhorrent, older than living memory.

Slowly we come back to our senses, and though no one seems much inclined to continue the fight, I do a quick head count anyways. We've lost two and the Autobots three. It would be up to Blade and I to carry this fight to its conclusion. I have no idea how many the Autobots have left, but I am sure they outnumber us. Sparrow crippled their ship; it would be advantageous to flee while they are unable to follow.

Carrying the badly damaged Mischief, I crest the hill, hauling ass back to our ship. There's something up ahead. A small, white flake of annoyance sitting near our ship. It stands as I slow my approach, and we meet beneath the boarding ramp. We stare at one another for more than a moment. The slender white and red femme is smaller even than Sparrow. Most likely a cassettacon by appearance. The medic badges on her shoulders stand in stark contrast to the Decepticon emblem on her chest. She gazes up at me, blinking, and suddenly I realize just how awkward I look.

"Well," She speaks. "I see Mischief managed to get herself shot out of the sky again."

"You… know one another?" I ask skeptically. I have no idea where this Decepticon came from; I've not heard of any Decepticons in the area aside from us.

"I've patched her up a time or two. The trick is to get the sutures in and get out before she comes to. Set her down right over here."

I do as she ask, yet maintain my skepticality. "I'm sorry, who are you? Where did you come from? Are you on our team?"

"I'm Verticon." she responds, already welding the fissures in Mischief's torso together. The helicopter girl stirs spasmodically. "I came in with Beamer's crew."

I have my rifle drawn in two nanoseconds. I pray she doesn't notice the bend in the useless barrel. "Freeze, Autobot spy!"

Verticon eyes mine with equal parts annoyance and pity. "I'm a Decepticon, you tread head. Through and through."

"But… you came in with Beamer, Blade's sworn mortal enemy."

"Is that what he told you? Blade isn't our enemy. He's a pest is what he is. Beamer barely remembers he exists." Verticon laughs, and for half a moment I feel the world lose a touch more color. "'Sworn enemy,' huh? Oh, that's rich. Beamer will love that one. No, in answer to your other question, I'm an Autobot POW."

"So come with us!" I offer. We could use a medic. Most of the repairs fall to either Sparrow or myself. I'm about as useful as a brake on a bulkhead, and after what I have just seen, there's no way I am ever letting Sparrow near me again. "I can free you!"

"I'm not that kind of POW." She looks at me almost wistfully. "It's… complicated."

So we stand there in silence, under the blazing sun, while she works to bring Mischief back from the brink. The alarms and explosions just the other side of the hill keep drawing my attention back in.

"Look, I'm almost done here. Why don't you head back? I'll keep your friend safe and sound for you."

"Okay." Anything to get back into battle. I am surprised at the hesitancy in my steps.

"If... "

"Yes?" I turn back.

Verticon bites her lip, as if torn about something. "If you see the big, purple guy out there, he can take a punch. Much more than the others. You should be able to take him."

"Thanks."

"What's your name, anyways?" She calls after me

"They call me Tanktanica." I cringe, anticipating the laughter. It doesn't come.

"Watch your back." She smiles instead.

I turn back once more. "I thought you said I could take him?"

"I wasn't talking about him. Don't trust anyone."

Contemplating her words, I once more crown the hill. The situation has changed slightly yet significantly. Blade is still locked in combat with Beamer, but now Lieger is headed their direction. At least I think it's Lieger; these new upgrades are playing havoc with my vision. Sure enough, there's a tall purple bot headed my direction. Two on three, I don't hate these odds.

I charge down the hill, gaining speed as I go. Thanks, gravity. The bot spots me and charges as well. I feel my rage build, and I once again remember why they call me Tanktanica. At about thirty yards I can make out his features. At twenty I see the Decepticon badge. That slows my pace slightly, but I am already at top speed. Tall like me, but without the tonnage, he probably towers over everyone else as well. It should be a spectacular battle. At ten yards I see his cheesy, islander smile, and I realize he is enjoying this. I am too. I scream a battle cry throwing all my weight into the last two yards. I find myself grinning through my anger, in spite of it all.

The crash is titanic. I feel my body twist as I slam into him. I go spinning off in one direction, face planting in the sand. I come up, sputtering and spewing. There's a collision warning on my HUD screen, and my vision seems a little worse for wear. I can't feel my right shoulder. Bounding to my feet with all the energy I have left, he is just two second behind me. The crash had apparently left him in a similar position, landing in the dirt behind me and to the left.

He dodges both my right and left hook. Though standing eye to eye, he doesn't have have as much armor, and can outpace me. If I can get one good hit in, he will probably go down, but until then, he seems content to dodge by jabs. I take two punches to the face, and see static. I realize I'm kneeling and he is laughing that stupid lyrical laugh, so I come up roaring.

Verticon was right; he can take a punch. But seven or eight punches he cannot. His helmet starts to dent, and his chest has cracked from where I put all my weight on it. Yet he still smiles that stupid smile, broken teeth and all. He'll live; I grant him that much, as a fellow Decepticon.

Standing slowly, I realize just how woozy I am. I miscalculated my energy output. The purple Con stands as well, but I think we've finished with one another. After a nod of mutual respect, we head opposite directions. He traverses for the crashed Valiant, while I stagger to where I'd last seen Blade.

Blade is locked in his furious battle with Beamer still. I've never seen anyone last this long against the jet, but then I understand what is happening. Beamer lunges in for a few, lightning fast strikes, and just as Blade turns his attention to him, Lieger rushes in. Blade is riddled with shotgun pellets, yet still he stands, hammering down blows against Lieger's shield. And then the Autobots switch again, trading partners. They slowly circle the larger Decepticon, wearing him down.

The tactic might work, so long as one of them does not make an error. The slightest misstep would prove to be fatal. Yet so far, the Autobots are moving in harmony, like seasoned soldiers. They may just stand a chance.

The roar of a muscle car fills the air. Polaris has returned, carrying extra weapons. Now it will be three on one, and even Blade seems to not like these odds. He slowly leads the duelists in reverse, backing towards our ship. I guess that's our bugout signal. I'd better give him a hand.

Having just caught my breath, I charge again, feet thundering through the earth. To my right, the red car races around a stone pillar, dirt blossoming up behind her. I may beat Polaris, but it will be a close call. Ahead, Blade has lost another sword, the red one with the Nebulan scroll work on the hilt. Shame, I know he quite liked that one. I was rather fond of it myself. He is down to dual wielding daggers, and I have to wonder just what exactly that mythical sword he lost to Beamer is made out of.

Lieger sees me and breaks off his attack, angling for me. I smile. This is going to be fun. At top speed, I pull back for a haymaker and hit him with everything I have. He catches my punch directly on his shield, and for a moment, I am almost impressed. Then he is gone in a puff of smoke and I hear him scream as he tumbles through the air. I laugh long and loud. Of everyone on Beamer's team, Lieger is my favorite. He always makes me laugh.

I reach Blade just as Polaris arrives. I knew I could beat her, I tell myself. Beamer has pulled back, and for a moment, both women check on their men. I chide myself, blushing at the thought of Blade every being mine.

"Boss? You okay?"

He is nearly comatose, having fought to a literal standstill. He is bleeding from too many lacerations to count, while his right knee is slashed half in two, barely held on at the ball joint. The ratchet assembly has been completely destroyed.

Lieger's shotgun gauntlet has also done a number on Blade's face. Puckered and bleeding, I think I can see the endoskeleton underneath. His optics still shine brightly though.

"Boss?"

"Bring me… his… head!" Blade collapses back into my arms, struggling to speak through clenched teeth and ragged breath. He points with his left hand, but there's not much left, most of it having caught the brunt of Lieger's punches.

I look behind me. Beamer is in equally bad shape, his paint appearing more purple than blue given the amount of fluid he's lost. He kneels on the ground, clearly trying to recuperate as Polaris sets up a particularly large ship-mounted fusion cannon, salvaged from the Valiant. Facing down that much raw, destructive power is not a prospect I relish.

"Yeah, nope. I'm calling it; we're done."

"Not without… my sword…" Blade coughs. I see Lieger driving erratically back towards his comrades.

"Not this time. But you never know, you may get him next round." I throw my employer over my shoulder. I don't fear him as much as I fear facing an Autobot with a fusion cannon, but it's close. I dread tomorrow with every single step I take.

Transforming, I hear Blade gurgle something as I hover away. It may have been a curse at Beamer, or myself, or even the world in general. I didn't quite catch it. In my rear view, Polaris has abandoned the cannon, and is ardently working on a collapsed Beamer, her hands a fervor. Even Lieger appears to have forgotten about us as he drives up.

Taking careful aim, I could blow them all away with my 120mm, catching them unawares. But that thought leaves a cold churning in my gut. I am an archaeologist, and a soldier pressed into service. I am not a murderer. So I re-engage my safety and round the hill back towards the ship.

True to the medic's word, Mischief lay exactly where I left her, in stasis, yet stable. Verticon, however, is nowhere to be seen. I transform and load Blade and Mischief aboard. Just as I begin to grow concerned about the pressing need to take off, Sparrow limps up the ramp. The very sight of her sends tingles down my spine that just won't go away. I don't want to look at her, let alone spend any time with her trapped aboard this cramped vessel. I would have left her if I could reach the controls. And just as I remember Mischief is in stasis lock, I realize Sparrow is the only size class we have that can reach the cockpit controls.

"Hi." I offer.

She pauses on the ramp, and for a moment we are eye level. I am suddenly very bashful. Making eye contact is not my forte. Sparrow, who never speaks and can stare her prey to death, also seems reluctant to make eye contact. As I watch her I detect almost a hint of disquiet. And perhaps even the shadow of shame. Apparently what had happened earlier was not entirely her intention. She lost control to her true nature. Leveling an appraising view, I see her as if for the first time. Not as a psychotic mute, nor as a grotesque monster. I see her as a Decepticon, a fellow broken thing, scooped up and given purpose by Blade. And as I stare at her, she watches me right back, that cocky annoyance returning.

"Can you get us out of here?"

She doesn't smile. She never smiles. She just continues up the ramp and preps the engines. Checking the rigging, I seal the hatch and wait for liftoff, reflecting on this trip. I'm beat up, bangged up, shot up and running low on fuel. My boss and his consort will never be the same. We spent all this time and effort, and I only retrieved a single vial of the self same metallic liquid. But Sparrow and I now know each other just a little bit better. Not enough to be friends. I don't have friends. Not yet. But a little closer, all the same.

Totally worth it.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

I look at myself in the mirror and sigh. Upgrades are a fact of life, they just are. At some point you are going to need modifications, or replacements, or software patches. They're going to stop making parts in your size, for your model. At that point you're not going to have a choice but to upgrade.

It's too easy to get addicted to upgrades, though. I've know too many boys who have fallen down that hole, never to recover. They end up strung out, spinning lines of neural code or data mining, often literally selling body parts so they can afford modifications for the bodies they no longer have.

It's easiest to get addicted to weapons upgrades. Honestly, I get it. It is that collector's mentality, the gotta catch 'em all attitude. Every other cycle they are tweaking and modifying their weapons for an optimized 0.02% increase in cool down time, or a 1/10th of a second faster trigger response.

But it's the body modders that make me scratch my head. They are always adding on parts to themselves. Mischief is one of them, I can tell. There are clues, telltale signs to look for. First, no one with her stature should be able to handle the amount of firepower she puts out. The faint weld lines around her joints means those aren't original either. She's had some work done. The black shadow around her optics are another sign of addiction. She's a repaint, but I don't think she is a reshell. At least she appears to be fighting it. Blade is probably keeping her clean.

Cybertronians can modify their bodies in miraculous ways. We can change color or alt modes. We can add weapons or remove secondary systems. But modifications come with a cost. Eventually the software conflicts with the operating system and you get caught in a neural feedback loop. Most medics prescribe a backup and soft reset, but modders are different. Those changes are hardwired in. They can't be turned off or reversed. Even when you removed the modifications, your system still recognizes the changes made. Eventually the errors compile and you are left with very few dangerous options.

For a reshell, you can transplant the spark, CPU, OS and other vital systems into a rebuilt body. The process is time consuming, dangerous and expensive. Only highly trained teams of medics are capable of pulling it off successfully.

The second option is Solid State Spark Endemo-modification, more commonly known as rebirth. Essentially it is ripping out your soul, touching the face if Primus, and placing your spark in a new, fresh, blank body. No nasty side effects, no risk of injury, no previous memories. You become a new creation. Cults have used rebirth as a recruiting tool for centuries. Rumor has it the military is using rebirth on prisoners to test the newest model prototypes. Rebirth has more ethical and legal restrictions than the physical ones reshell has. Still, neither are preferable to clean living, and have always actively deterred me from modifications.

Which is one of the reasons I am so angry now. Blade provided me with five upgrades in as many days. They all seemed reasonably sound. A targeting program for my tank mode. Modified hyper dense alloy playing for my cranium. Tits.

I have literally no other way to describe what I am looking at as I turn sideways in the mirror. The twin miss pods now bolted to my chest had seemed a reasonable step. I needed extra armaments in robot mode, the argument went. A single gun was not sufficient. So one quick stasis nap later and and I now have missile pods.

The problem is they were pilfered second hand, either from a wrecked exo suit, or a seeker's corpse. I can only pray it was the former. Either way, they were designed by their original owner to sit flush in recessed housing. My torso has no such recess. Therefore, they simply bolted them on and told me to hope for the best.

I was a big girl before, I always have been. I tried to stay somewhat feminine looking. But this… I now have a cracking pair of tits. There's no way around it. I look comical and they are heavy and my back hurts. Transformation is now a bitch, and I am half afraid they are going to explode on me every time I do so.

The worst part is my splitting headache. The errors have started to compile. My new missile rack is incompatible with my targeting system, so I have to use one or the other. The blinking error icons keep appearing in my sight, and I am unable to clear them, even when I power down. And I will always be like this. This is the best I will ever feel again.

I sigh and sit down on my cot. What am I doing here? What has happened to me? Is this what I want from life? I look to my painting, framed and hanging on my wall, and I immediately feel conflicted. Blade needs me. He wants me. No one has ever wanted me around before. Shouldn't I adapt to his needs, to serve him better? Is that abuse? Do I care?

These are the questions I ponder as there comes a rap at my door.

"Yes?" I'm feeling to lazy to get up just now.

"Am I interrupting anything?" Blade sticks his head in.

I don't answer, I just turn away. I know he is using me, and I know that entails telling me what I want to hear. What I don't know is how much of what comes out of his mouth is truth and what is a convenient fiction.

Blade limps as he enters the room. We couldn't find a knee replacement, so Sparrow had to patch it up as best as possible. That was not a fun operation to assist with. He says he feels fine, but I notice him limping sometimes, but only in front of me. He has faith in me enough to let his guard down on a way he cannot around the other girls.

Something truly Decepticon inside me reviles at this notion, screaming at me that I am being a putz, that he is playing on my feelings of affirmation. I find myself caring less and less though. I know he trusts and confides in me. That gives me a warm feeling through my fuel rods.

"Is something the matter, my dear?" He sits next to me.

"No. I'm just… thinking."

"I see." I can't bring myself to face the disappointment I hear in his voice, so I turn away. "You know, I was young once. Whatever doubts you now harbor, I once bore them in full."

"What are you talking about?"

"You doubt the direction your life has taken. You doubt yourself. You doubt my reliance in you." I turn to face him and lock eyes. Oh, Primus but he has gorgeous eyes. I could just get lost in his optics.

"No." I reply meekly.

" Yes."

He brushes his thumb ever so lightly across my lower lip. That's all it takes and I am lost to his spell, all resolve gone. I would give literally anything for him to kiss me at this moment. He smells so good. Again, the Decepticon part of my processor tells me I am being foolish. I don't care though. I shut my optics, take a deep breath and prepare to tell him how I feel, no matter the consequences.

But when I look again, he has already turned away. I am slightly taller than him even seated, and I realize I have such a unique perspective that the other girls will never have. Today he is wearing a very G2 style, yellow leopard print cape. It contrasts with the deep purple energon he swirls in his goblet. I can smell the traces of cobalt from here.

I'm on his right, so I can't see the patches on his face from here. His good side is still striking and dynamic. Not a beautiful face, or one you would immediately pick out of a crowd, but one that would would want to follow. One that you could spend a century trading ever line with your hands and still discover new fascets you never knew were there.

Blade sighs deeply. "Did Mischief ever tell you my history?"

"Mischief doesn't give me the time of day."

"Yes, well," he smiles ruefully with just a touch of bitterness. "That he because she mistakenly believes I belong to her." He catches his breath.

"Many years ago, when I was quite young and still prone to foolish acts of impulse, I heeded Megatron's call to arms and joined his armada. It was a wonderful time, full of believe and hope for the future.

"Given my family name and status, I rose quickly through the ranks. I proved myself time and again to be a capable and competent leader, and gained the recognition of my peers. Yet I never became one of his trusted lieutenants, in the core sanctum. I was graced with Megatron's presence on numerous occasions, yet always from afar. I studied at his his teachings, read his scrolls and believed his words. Surely, here was a being who would restore the Decepticons to their former glory.

"So taken with him was I, and so inspired by his rhetoric and leadership, that I used my estates wealth to personally finance no fewer than three campaigns. As a youth I had been content to ignore the plight of our people, bask to in the privilege I had neither earned nor deserved. But this was my opportunity to rise up and cast off my chains of slavery."

"Slavery?" I chid myself but I had to interrupt. "I thought you were royalty?"

Blade smiled at my own lack of understanding. "I too struggled with this concept for many nights. But eventually I realized that some are made masters by being slaves. And some are made slaves by being masters. The Autobots sought to silence Megatron by making him a slave, to suppress his voice by sending him to the mines to die. The Autobots equally sought to make me a slave. But while the slag pits of Kaon suited Megatron, they gilded my chains with wealth and privilege and honor. While Megatron was able to forge his chains into power, I found my own chains much harder to throw off. Thus, it was only the teachings of Megaton that allowed me to finally become free.

"But inspiration, as with everything, becomes dulled by the reaches of time. As the quick, crushing victory for the Deception turned from years into centuries, I found my own freedom distasteful. The grand plans for a new order soon fell into squabbling power struggles and in fighting. We held Cybertron. Decepticons controlled 85% of the surface and nearly 3/4ths of the undercity. It was ours for the taking, do you understand this? But we couldn't hold it due to our own hubris.

"Only Iacon stood against us. That grand city-state where no Decepticon has ever ruled. That tiny, little island stood before the juggernaut of the Decepticon war machine. And one Autobot stood up and said 'No. Not here. No further.'"

"Prime." Even I am surprised at the reverence in my voice.

"Indeed. The only bot capable of standing up to Megatron. And the Autobots flocked to him by the millions. No longer were they the rag-tag group of guerilla fighters, defending a few hectares of land. They were an army, combat trained and ready to die for what they believed in. Their ranks only bolster, while ours fell apart between our very fingers."

"So what happened?"

"War happened. True war, the kind a Decepticon can only dream of once every five generations. It stretched on for millennia, for eons. The Autobots pushed, we pushed harder. For every inch they took back, we made the buying price higher than they could pay. Would they truly spare a hundred lives to reclaim a single building? How about a thousand? What about a hundred thousand? Would Optimus Prime order his troops to fall on their swords just to reclaim a single squabbly bit of ground?"

Blade stares at me, as if waiting for my answer. But I am not so foolish as to beleaguer his opportunity to recount history. With my chin resting lightly on my fingers, I gesture gently, urging him to continue. He drains the last of his energon, staring at his empty goblet pensively.

"Optimus Prime thought of things better than himself, of ideals he held so dear that he was willing to _die_ for them.

"Megatron, by contrast, believed in his own power. He began ruling through fear rather than inspiration. He held his own ideals so dear that he was willing to _kill_ for them. Megatron was not a breaker of shackles. He was a new breed of slavemaster, one who forego the chains and chose instead the whip. Discipline in a necessary teaching tool, mind you, and is of vital importance to keep troops in line from time to time. But this was pure madness, a living nightmare inspired by fear.

"Megatron was not a leader; he was a tyrant. What's worse, I realized, he was nothing but an up jumped curr, unbefitting of the station he found himself in. He had no lineage, no history, no honorable name. Megatron held no claim to the throne save for power and power alone. And even that was faltering. I realized everything he lacked, I possessed. I held lands, and titles. My lineage was deep. I possessed the diplomatic ties and relationships to bring this war to a decisive end. There were better claimants than myself for the Decepticon throne, granted. But they had all perished early in the war, disgraced themselves, or met with an assassin's blade. And so I stood poised to claim the seat of power as my own, as the one true ruler of Cybertron. Yet, I lacked the very things Megatron held, that made him so formidable: his army, his power, and his fear.

"I had been lied to, I had been betrayed.

"After an unfortunate incident with a train, I left, vowing one day to have my revenge. I returned home to my ancestral seat, and to the tombs of my forefathers. My wealth was gone, my slaves deserted me. I was exiled from the Decepticons. My comrades named me a coward and traitor. I was forced to turn to… less savory means to accomplish my goals. I became a criminal, an outlaw. I sought work as a bounty hunter and mercenary. I used any means to survive, and I looked for my answers beyond the stars.

"Yet, here I stand and they're all gone now."

It was silent for a while after that.

"I am going to reignite the Decepticon cause under a new banner. I am going to pick it from the dirt where Megatron left it and give meaning back to our name. I am going to raise an army and conquer Cybertron by any means, as a true leader should. I am doing to do that which not even Megatron himself could accomplish.

"Will you help me?" He stands, offering his hand.

"Yes." My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. I lay my hefty palm in his, soft as velvetine.

As I stand and look him in the eye, I realized I no longer hold any doubts. Even the Decepticon voice in my head swears loyalty to an enchanter like this. I would live for him. I would die for him. I would kill for him.

"Excellent." he grins, fangs bared. "Let's get started."


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

The cool evening air wafts across the dancefloor, bringing with it the faintest scent of Cybertronian Moon Flowers. I watch a dozen Decepticon sympathisers embrace and sway, dancing in time with the orchestra, locked in the embrace that I have never known. Someone laughs much too loudly at a comment made in jest, a clear sign that the energon is flowing freely tonight. I have rarely felt more out of place.

I am standing in the main amphitheater of Achron Hall, an estate in Victory Hills. While ancient Decepticons slaved away in the slag pits of Kaon, their feudal lords established these grand palaces on the only hill for any distance. While the fortresses of old had been defensible, they also served as a psychological maker differentiating the classes. The suburb still serves as a status symbol even to this day.

While officially remaining neutral during the war, it's proximity to Kaon meant that Victory Hills was inhabited by the wealthiest of Decepticons, and was also one of Megatron's first soft victories. He needed their money, and he needed hostages.

I walk to the veranda, surveying the lights of Kaon twinkling below be. The subdivision has spectacular views, I will give it that. While Megatron himself had never dained to set foot on Victory Hill, Starscream had taken a passionate liking to it. Rumor held that it took four generals to pry the Air Commander away from this opulence and back to the front.

Someone laughs behind me, and I try to ignore them and enjoy myself as best I can. A lost cause indeed. Tonight sees to be full of them. I wonder how the others are faring, and try not to think about it.

The Ivory Spire fundraiser for war orphans is already well underway. I pass bots I will never be allowed within a hundred yards of again. Business owners meet dukes and barons, while clergy rub elbows amongst warlords. I swear I have seen no less than three Autobot Court justices. They make sure to pay no attention to me.

In the past year under Blade's employment, I've discovered a few things. First, he is flat broke. All his inheritance and capital have long since vanished. The second thing I've learned is that the first thing doesn't slow him down at all. He still acts like an aristocrat, and spends money like one too. But if there is one things he holds in spades it is charm and charisma.

So here we are. We've come to this gathering of former friends and associates for one reason: to beg. He still has the connections and is even still liked in some circles. Decepticon memory is nothing if not extensive. Someone here will be willing to throw him a bone, I'm sure. Blade is wagering on it.

Everyone ignores me. I hang back, trying to plant myself in the wall and not be seen. But I still notice their futurative glances. I am big and awkward, and technically not welcome.

Bodyguards are strictly not allowed at this fundraiser. We'd committed a grand faux pas when Blade had been announced "and company." I hadn't even ranked as his plus one. That honor would go to Mischief, of course, wherever she had gotten herself to. All heads turned my direction. No one seemed to object to my inclusion, but everyone had gossipped about it to no end.

Everyone here was dressed in some manner. As regal Deceptions of a proud heritage, they kept to traditions foregone by most of the populous long ago. The concept of clothes is uniquely foreign to robots, and had been introduced to Cybertron by interstellar traders long ago. We found them useful for protection from acid rain and corrosion. Soon, those with the means began keeping up with the styles and customs of other cultures. For a short time, Cybertron had experienced a veritable fashion boom! Then the war happened, and practicality took precedence. There are simpler ways to protect oneself from acid rain beyond throwing a sheet over the head.

As I scan the room, I see most of the males have taken to capes or sashes. All the easier to adorn defunct war medals upon. The females are a bit more adventurous, with shawls and scarves worn on the head or shoulders. I notice a few are wearing traditional combat skirts from the Remnant. I think they look a bit funny without the top half of the ensemble, but far me it from me to correct my superiors on fashion inspired by warrior poets of Oum.

There are, of course, outliers. The last batch. Those who push the boundaries of both fashion and taste. Several of the femmes are wearing full length dresses, woven from the most exotic glimmer silk. I have to admit, they are absolutely stunning. The cuts are tailored exactly to their forms, and there is none of the alt mode kibble to get in the way. There are perhaps five of them daring enough to pull the look off. I see green and gold and red, all gliding like ice across the dance floor. Their dance cards fill up first, and with good reason. They are remarkable.

And then there is me. My dress doesn't fit right and it hangs in odd places. I feel naked from the way everyone keeps staring at me, and from the bare patch on my back where my cannon should hang. We couldn't afford a custom fit, and there is no way we could have gotten enough glimmer silk to cover me, so the dyed material is rough and scratchy. I look like I am wearing a circus tent.

I sigh and turn back to the evening, leaving their party goers to their revelry. I don't mean to sulk, even if it comes out that way. I find my own enjoyment in the quiet moments.

"Not dancing?"

I glance up. Blad has joined me. He has been at his cups, just enough to lighten his mood. He still needs his wits about him to negotiate later. Tonight he is wearing a vibrant purple cape that brings out the red in his eyes. His traditional gray steel has been chrome plated, making it quite easy to see my slack-jawed expression in his reflection. I can barely look at him, he is so damn beautiful.

"I don't dance." I turn back to the view.

"You know," he offers me his cup I profusely refuse, so he takes a sip instead. "I grew up not far from here."

"Really?" I perk up.

He nods silently. "Some of these people here were my friends and comrades before the war."

"But not anymore, I guess."

The sad smile on his face almost breaks my heart. "War has a way of doing that."

"At least you had friends."

He finishes his drink and grabs my hand. "Come on."

"What are you doing?" My voice goes up an octave as he drags me towards the floor.

"You're going to dance with me."

"But- but I don't dance."

"You can make an exception just this once." Couples swirl around us he stands before me.

I hang my head, unable to look him in the eye. "I can't dance. I don't know how. No one ever taught me." I admit, shamed.

He lifts my chin, looking me in the face. "Then I will teach you."

He takes my right hand and places it just so, before taking my left. With mathematical cadence he begins to move, and my own feet follow suit. I only stumble twice before I no longer have to watch my freakishly large clodhoppers. We begin to flow around the floor amongst the other dancers. To and fro, we twirl in rhythm. The song changed and we dance more. His eyes scan the room, ever alert. But I notice him smile, just a bit.

There is so much passion in his eyes. Hatred, yes, but passion and desire as well. Right now, it is all directed at me. And for a moment, the world fades away. It is just he and I in a sea of music. The blade and his bodyguard.

The orchestra plays a Rosanna cover of Selena's "I Could Fall in Love" and we sway in time. His feet move, and mine follow. It doesn't matter that I am large, or gangly, or that he is my employer. He sees me as I am, and he makes me want to be better. He pulls me closer, and I smell the Moon Flowers on his neck. I can't help myself. I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. I lay my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. I've never wanted a moment to last longer than this perfect moment right now. I will hold it in my spark forever.

"I just heard from Sparrow." he whispers in my audio receptor.

I try, I try so hard to ignore him, to drown him out and stay in this moment just an instant longer. But the world comes crashing back down on me. I am tripping over my feet, I am dancing with my boss, and I am wearing a dress. The song ends, and I am the only one who enjoyed the Earth music it seems. No anti-virus patch could calm the anxiety and embarrassment I feel. I recognize a migraine coming on. Another error icon pops up in my vision.

"A pearl of great price has fallen into our hands. Your unmagnanimous retreat on Algorus IV has been presented to us as a fortuitous opportunity. The Autobot began poking around the ruins after your failure there, and discovered our relics. I believe they do not yet know what they possess, or they would have taken more drastic means to secure them. You are to take Sparrow to where they are being transported tonight and retrieve them with extreme prejudice."

I reflect on his words. He blames me for calling the retreat, even though it meant saving his life. Stealing back the artifacts would go a long ways to putting things right with him.

I open my mouth when I hear the faintest gasp from across the room. One of the musicians misses a beat, and I watch as a wave of heads turn towards me. No, not my direction; behind me.

Mischief has made her entrance. Like myself, she has eschewed all transformation kibble and weapons for a more slimmer outline. Though, I have no doubt she is still fully armed and quite deadly. Her black and red pinstriping only accentuates the naturally ample curves of her body. The brilliantly glossy black, low cut, backless glimmer silk dress clings to her like a second skin. She pauses in the foyer, surveying the portico like a queen. The smirk on her lips tells me she knows exactly what she is doing. She begins walking, and I can only guess she has tweaked her transom, because the sultry sway of her gait is anything but natural. She looks like the luxuriant halfbreed daughter of desire and death itself. She would be a knockout in any species; she is easily the sexiest thing in the room tonight.

I have never singularly hated and loved anything so much as I do at this exact moment. She sashays towards Blade and myself, and I know my night is over.

"Were you waiting long?" She purrs to Blade, ignoring me entirely. I melt away as she slinks into his arms.

"I managed to distract myself, though I will admit, it was frightfully boring." He possesses her, dipping her low. He looks at her in the way no one has ever looked at me. He kisses her the way I long to be kissed. I just want to die.

The band picks up on the the change in mood and begins to play something steamy with Iberian undertones. I back away until I find myself in a wall again. Blade and Mischief begin their dance in earnest. The slits at the side of her dress allow her legs freedom of movement and she utilises them to the fullest. With one knee crooked around his neck, she spares me the briefest of glances as she twirls around Blade. I drop my gaze to my heavy calves in shame. She truly is a combat artist, and her skills allow a range of movement I could never attempt.

Demoralized and degraded, I rip my dress off two seconds after I am out the door. The memories I had just sworn to cherish forever have turned ashen in my mouth. The blade and the bodyguard? Please.

What a joke.


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**

There are very few places in this universe where Decepticons can congregate openly without unease or suspicion. The space docks at Kaon are one of them. Sparrow and I stroll down the promenade taking in the cool night air, and I feel my earlier tensions melting away. That may be due in part to the spiced lager I am currently nursing. Sparrow, of course, waves me off when I offer her a taste. She is a quiet companion, and great for a heartache. I like that. So we walked in silence, watching the ships come and go.

I let the evening breeze cool my circuits, washing the hopeless fangirl from my face. I open my mouth twice to speak, but think better of it. Sparrow leads the way down to the lower loading docks. She seems familiar with the way as she's probably been here countless times before. I wonder how much she has seen in her years, witnessing generations come and pass only to come again. Which of her dreams did she have shatter, to end up as the intelligence arm off a rogue Decepticon outfit? I will probably never know, but it makes a passing melodrama to divert my time.

My alcohol finished, I look around for something else to eat. The docks are always a great place for traders. Exotic supplies from around the galaxy make their way here. Even at this hour a few merchants have set up shop. A smelly little Nebulon is selling wares out of his own cargo hold. I pay him three credits for spiced energon crisps. Sparrow actually tries one this time but, true to form, I can not discern if she likes it or not. Her face is as expressionless as ever while she leads the way down the flightline. We weave between ships in the midsts of landing and takeoff procedures.

No one pays us any heed. We blend right in with the dock workers and landing crews. And even if we didn't, there is enough foot traffic between the landing pads to not warrant suspicion.

Sparrow pauses beside a door. Docking bay 95. The door is easily three stories high, and the walls another story on top of that. The cold, gray, sweating facade seem to mock me. Designed to protect against ship-mounted firepower, there is no way I am cutting through this. Fortunately, I don't have to. Sparrow palms the control panel, quickly gaining access to the system. It takes only a moment before there is a distinct click and the door shutters open.

Glancing behind me, we quickly slip into the docking bay. Inside is berthed a crippled golden Autobot freighter, and a smaller, personal rumrunner beside it. The freighter is obviously in the middle of repairs, having only limped back to Cybertron before requiring maintenance. The bodywork and repairs are quite evident but have ceased activity for the night.

The smaller green shuttle, however, is wide open, with crates stacked up outside the open bay door. Two smaller mechs sit on the loading ramp, watching us.

"I don't believe this." I walk forward, glancing at Sparrow. "Didn't you say they have a base somewhere?"

Sparrow shrugs.

"We needed some repairs that Polaris couldn't handle. Luckily, I know most of the sleaze buckets in this place and was able to get us a docking bay." Verticon rises to her feet. "What are you doing here?"

I shrug, trying to play it cool. "Came for that thing we left. I heard you guys picked it up."

"Probably. What about it?"

Every scanner in my head is screaming. If Verticon is here, that means Beamer and his friends must be here somewhere too. I am trying to look everywhere at once without being obvious about it. Verticon doesn't seem concerned at all, which means she has firepower hiding somewhere. I think. She just stands there with one hand on her hip and that bossy glare on her face.

There's another cassettacon too, a pink and white Autobot femme trying to hide behind Verticon. She looks downright scared at the arrival of two new Decepticons. I've read the updated files on Beamer's team after our last encounter, and I don't recognize her. She must be a new addition to the roster.

Sparrow, for her part, just looks bored. She's watching me, letting me take the lead on this one. I don't think she'll interfere, no matter what course of action I decide to take.

So it's up to me, huh? Fine.

"I need it."

I try bluffing my way through, but Verticon isn't having any of that. "How is that my problem?"

Incredible. She is a fraction of my size and is calling my bluff. I try not to be intimidated, but the itch from my empty cannon mount makes that harder than it should be.

"Could we buy it off you?" I switch tactics.

"Funny, how do you intend to pay? From what i hear, your boss is dead broke."

"How do you know that?"

Verticon smiles and shrugs. "I may have switched sides, but I've still got friends. I keep an audio receptor to the ground."

I detect movement to my left. Sparrow is snickering, and I can't help but feel it is directed at me. Do these two know one another? The bile rises in my throat and I feel my face become flush as my anger tints my vision. I have bungled this negotiation right from the start. This was Fury's forte, not mine. No wonder I was starving before Blade rescued me.

"Look, Autobot!" I lean into the word, hurling it as an insult. My forward step closes the gap between us and I tower over her.

"What?"

There's movement ahead. Spectrawave, the big, purple Decepticon, is offloading cargo. He politely waves at me, but I know better. He's letting me know that he knows I am here. Given our draw last time, I am not eager to face him again, especially unarmed.

"I need that talisman." I forcibly calm myself.

"And I need a new paint job. What of it?" Verticon glowers at me.

"Can't you just give it to me? Were both Decepticons. This doesn't have to be difficult."

"Do you have any idea what kind of position you're putting me in?" She throws up her hands. "I'm a POW. I'm only walking around free because I'm a medic and a halfway decent surgeon. Some Autobot somewhere was smart enough to realize that is worth something. But freedom comes at a price. I have weekly performance ratings. My reports are written up and sent in to the CDC office. Beamer spends half a megacycle every week just on paperwork. If I fail to meet my qualifications, then the Autobot High Command deems me a threat to society, and my ass goes in the brig.

"And now, I've got two Decepticons I barely know traipsing into a locked hanger that I recommended, demanding that I hand over an artifact they tried to steal, all because we both used to be on the same side if the war.

"Well, I've got news for you sweetheart. The war's over. We lost. I'm not going to stick my neck out for you just for old times sake. Sorry. If it were just me, I'd leave leave with you in a spark pulse. But I've got people depending on me, and I take my marching orders the same as you. I wish things were different, but they're not. So if you want to rumble, let's go. I will take you, anywhere, any time. Otherwise, you can just leave."

We stare at one another for a beat too long. If I were going to attack I should have done it already. The tension visibly dissipates. I can see the strain and fear ease from people's shoulders. The fellow femme hiding behind Verticon stops quivering. I give a questioning look at Sparrow. She's still staring down Verticon.

There is a clunk of the turbolift descending. All eyes turn to the entrance to the upper levels.

"I can tell you this." Offers Verticon quickly. "They're taking everything we loaded from that planet to the Iacon Museum of History and Antiquities. I don't know the transport route, but I do know the convoy will be lightly guarded, if at all."

"That… helps. Thanks."

The lift doors open, and two more bots emerge, hand in hand. I am not concerned about the smaller cassettacon Dialatius, but Cavalier, the female Autobot, looks like she can handle her own. They see us and rush our way. Cavalier is shouting when Spectrawave holds her back with a hand on her chest. The Dialatius rushes over to his inverse twin. It's amazing how much alike he and Verticon appear, even for wave mates.

I quickly run the numbers in my head. Three cassette bots, a larger cassette master and a carbot, versus Sparrow and myself. It would hardly be a scrap, but we also wouldn't come out unscated. And as I look at Verticon, I can see the Decepticon still in her. She'd blow every crate of cargo if it meant stopping us from getting what we want.

I sigh. "Thanks for the tip."

"Any time." Verticon smiles a Decepticon smile.

I turn and leave, Sparrow falling in lockstep. As we exit the hangar, I hear the Cavalier arguing with Verticon and Spectrawave. As their turnkey I'm sure she wasn't supported to leave them unsupervised. No more than they were supposed to have the former comrades over to play. I have no doubt Verticon will come out unscathed in the end.

Sparrow is looking up at me inquisitively. I know what she is thinking. We could have easily taken what we need right then and there. I've gone soft.

"What? Don't look at me like that. I didn't have my cannon. Besides, you heard what she said. We can easily take out the supply convoy. It'll be a much easier target. I know they were right here, but the situation wasn't right." I talk at the empty air, lying to myself as much as my comrade. "Besides, I'm in charge on this one, remember?"

Sparrow, for her part, isn't buying a word of this. She just stares at me with that blank expression and glowing green optics. I just keep on talking but it's not working. She can see right through me.

"I know I know what you are going to say. I'm sorry, alright?"

My words probably have no effect on her, but she turns her head and leads us back through the flight line.

"Just… don't tell Blade, okay?"


	10. Chapter 10

**X**

She told Blade.

"You know, Tanktanica. I can't say I am surprised, but I can't help but feeling just a bit… sad."

"Please!" I scream, straining against my restraints. The plasma whip cracks again, and I feel nothing but pure, all encompassing agony

"Eighty-nine!" Mischief counts aloud.

"I'm sorry!" My vocal processor cracks under the strain as the lash strikes my exposed back once more.

"I had such high hopes for you too."

Blade's calm demeanor dances before my eyes, the pain overloading my optics. The pain is blinding; I truly understand that statement now. I can't think straight. I have no way out of this. All I can do is scream. I feel the sting of the whip once more, and I scream in turn.

I am strapped face down on the rack Blade keeps in his dungeon for just such occasion. Always one for presentation, he has actual carbon burning torches down here. Not that I think he put them there himself. Even now as I lay in anguish, he merely looms over me, quaffing. Mischief is the one with the whip, skilled as she is spiteful, counting out each and every one of my one hundred lashes.

Here's the thing about plasma whips. They work best when their victim is restrained, as I am now, and stripped of their armor and plating, as I currently find myself. They are less a weapon and more of a tool.

Cybertronians possess an endodermis of sorts, a thin polycarbonate layer that protects our internal curicurty from water, silt and grime. It is essential for any species of sufficiently advanced sentient robot life to thrive, though I have heard some robotanists suggest certain phylogeny could evolve without it.

The superheated shourge cuts right through the endo-layer like it is nothing, allowing oxygen access to the body cavity. The plasma tendrils dance around inside, burning up systems and machinery of everything they touch. Some of the stronger arcs can last in upwards of a minute. It is agonizing in an a way unimaginable to most beings. Every alarm and warning bell in my head is going off. With the safeties engaged, though, I can't even slip into stasis lock.

"Ninety!"

"Blade! Please stop!" I am not ashamed to admit I am crying. The ground below me is covered in blood. I can only imagine what my back looks like.

"Ninety one!"

"Boss! Stooooooop!"

"You know you deserve this, my child." He leans in close and I smell the energon on his breath. "I gave you instructions, very specific instructions. I ordered you to retrieve the artifact and to execute anyone who stood in your way. What did you do? You let the Autobots live and instead passed to buck off. If it were not for my most devoted Mischief, our treasures would be wasting away in some museum. She will retrieve them where you failed.

"I wanted more from you, but you held back. The worst part isn't even your betrayal. I can look past that. Treason is to be expected amongst our kind. No, the worst part is, you don't trust me, Tanktanica."

"Ninety two."

I offer a shuddered gasp, staring up at him.

"I am so disappointed in you."

His words hurt more than any whip ever could, and for two full strokes I forget to scream. His words cascade in my head like the plasma across my back. All my life I have been a disappointment to everyone I encounter. But this is the first time that truly counts. I wanted to serve him faithfully, for him to love me, as I love him. Instead I have disappointed him. I would gladly spend the next hundred years on this table if it meant not disappointing him.

He turns away, and I fear I have lost him forever.

"Please!" I beg before the lash even falls. "I can't!"

"Ninety five!" Mischief calls.

Blade moves to the door. He is done with me. I will be thrown away like rubbish. I can't lose him. I have to make this right. He wants more from me. He wants something I've never given anyone else; he told me so the first day we met. I have to go beyond. I have to prove to him that that I am loyal. That I love him. That I trust him.

"Master, please! I love you!" I scream.

The words spill out of me of their own accord, brought on more by fear than from pain. Blade turns. Even Mischief falters on the next whip stroke. Oh Primus, what have I just said? I wish Mischief would just go ahead and kill me.

Decepticons make slaves, and have been slaves ourselves. We understand servitude. Anyone can be a thrall, but to voluntarily call another Decepticon 'master' is an action of grave magnitude. I am placing myself under Blade's authority forever, honoring him with all loyalty and respect due to him. It is tantamount to a religious proclamation of the highest order. There are few practices like it, but the human concepts of 'marriage' or 'blood oath' are close. Only a Spark bond is more venerated.

"Sparrow." Blade orders. "Remove her restraints."

I close my eyes as my head falls limp. I can't look at his face.

"Master." Mischief reminds everyone of her title. She is his mate, not me.

Blade leans down and strokes my cheek. It is wet with condensation. Though I can still feel the plasma arcs burning inside my body, it is nothing compared to the electricity in his touch. He smiles at me; a genuine smile. I have given him exactly what he wants.

"Oh, I think we can do without the last five lashes, don't you?"

"Thank you!" I cry, my breath coming out ragged and broken. Maybe I should be more indignant of the ninety five strokes I've already received, and less grateful for the commutation of the last five. The answer is simple though. Unless you've been on the receiving end of a plasma whip, you have no room to talk. I would have been grateful for one less stroke. Five less is a miracle.

"Blade, you can't-" Blade silences Mischief with a glance.

"You think me cruel?" He caresses my face.

All I can muster is a weak "No."

I am too weak to move. Blade's hand comes away from my cheek smeared of blood. How bad of shape am I in? Mischief grips her right forearm, hanging her head, and idly I wonder what he has done to her in the past. I can't see what Sparrow is doing, lurking in the shadows as she releases me.

"Oh, yes you do. For I am cruel. I have to be. Your life, all your lives, are in my hands. I have to prepare you for what lies ahead. I demand your loyalty, but I can only earn your faith. There is a storm coming, and you are not ready. None of you are. This is the final battle, and it challenge everything you are. You must be stronger, smarter. You have so much promise, Tanktanica. You just need a little conviction."

Conviction. His words stirr me. I push myself off the torture rack, trying to get my arms underneath me. I falter twice, but I don't ask for help. No one offers it. Unsteadily I stand to my feet. My spine is straining under the trauma, but it holds. I was built to handle tougher things than this.

I stand on my own, a Decepticon true. I look Mischief in the eye and don't flinch. She stares right back, optics full of malice and hate, but I see a begrudging respect too. I am her rival, but I am also now her sister.

Blade takes my hand. "Come, my dear." he says. "Let me tend your wounds."

"You… You would do that for me? Yourself?"

Blade smiles knowingly. I can no longer tell the difference between his genuine amusement and smiling just to get his way. It is all true to me, now.

"After that beautiful confession? Tanktanica, my dear, how can I do anything but?"

He leads me to his room. Not the treasure room, but his private quarters, off limits to everyone but Mischief. I would be elated if every step were not agony. Everywhere in the castle are signs of Blade's taste, but here is shines most fully. A Maltese statue of a bird. A war torn Decepticon battle standard. A Daishō Koshirae with a single, extravagantly ornate hilt, sword missing from the stand.

There are other signs too, indications that all is now as it should be. Only half the bed has been slept in. There are piles of books and scrolls thrown about the room, much too haphazardly for their age and condition. I notice blood soaked bandages littering about, and more than a few torn and rent capes in various stages of ill mend.

I notice a last few things as my legs give out. Mischief has left her mark as well, though vastly overshadowed by Blade. She is almost a guest but for a few indicators. The air smells of her. The disheveled bed bears the impression of her slight frame. There is a pile of spare armor parts in the corner in a slightly different paint job than she currently sports. A hand mirror sits on the lone desk, almost a broken as the hologram next to it. I can't make out who the two adolescent bots are, but they are smiling and happy.

I collapse face first into bed. Blade palms the control panel and the bed hums to life. The base glows white, recharging my systems. A thin layer of pink energon thrums into action, the film actively tingling where in contact with my body. I smirk when I realize I am bleeding all over Mischief's side.

"You poor thing." Blade sits next to me, gingerly touching the gaping wounds in my back. I quickly find my mouth full of energon as a clamp down on the sheets between my teeth. "Mischief did a number on you."

"Yeah, funny that. It's almost like she knows what she's doing."

"Well, suffice it to say I would be disappointed if she didn't." He opens the med kit retrieved from the desk. A quick jab with the thumb drive and I have a new temporary subroutine to combat the pain. Unfortunately it complies a new batch of error conflicts. "After all, I'm the one who taught her."

"Really?" I cry out. The plastic weld he is putting on my back will close the wounds, but it will do precious little for the internals.

"I would be an overestimation to say I raised her. But let us just say, I made her everything she is today."

"How did you two meet?"

"She came to me much as you did, broken and alone. I gave her strength. I gave her power. I gave her purpose."

"So you just collect us, huh?" I turn my head to look back. His hand has paused mid-air, covered in salve. It takes him a moment to realize I am teasing him.

"Now listen, you." he smirks, resuming his duties.

"I must be insane," I muse, my mind dizzy with pain. "Teasing my master. I've got to have a death wish."

"I am pleased you have opened yourself to me fully, Tanktanica. I would never harm you." He doctors the lashes on my back ordered struck by his command.

"And what of me?" I suddenly find myself very afraid. Being so open and vulnerable, both figuratively and literally, has made me quite aware of my standing. "What if I disappoint you again? Will you kick me out? I couldn't live with that. You are my everything. I worship you."

His answer takes longer than I would have liked. I look back and he is lost in the past, still putting salve on my back, quick-welding it shut. His silence lingers heavy in the air.

"Everyone is looking for a master. Some just can't be their own. Starscream called Megatron 'master,' and yet he betrayed him at every turn. Everyone thought Megatron should have just shot him, or cast him out. But he never did. In the end, it cost Megatron his life.

"I, too, once called Megatron my master. Yet it was failure, not treachery, that was my did not forgive.

"But I shall. You have nothing to fear from me, Tanktanica. I discipline, I admonish, but I shall never cast you out. Everyone is searching for a master; some just can't handle being on their own."

I nod, taking in his words. "Wait, who is your master now?"

"That," he leans close enough for me to see the cicatrice on his face. He almost kisses me. Almost. "Is above your pay grade." He stands, helping me to my feet once more. "You're done. Go don your armor and find Sparrow."

The pain is much more manageable now without oxygen finding its way into my internals. I walk quickly from the room, sparing only a single glance behind me. Blade looks so proud and regal, and yet so profoundly alone. I know I've made the right decision, opening myself to him. In time, he may return the token. I just have to trust him to make the right decision. After all, what choice do I have?


	11. Chapter 11

**XI**

The fortress is unremarkable. Just another wearhouse, with nothing drawing the eye to it. Hidden in plain sight among the industrial districts, no one would ever suspect that inside lurks a monster.

This stage of the operation have gone exceptionally smoothly. The focusing device we require for the god-killer weapon in buried on Earth. Given how heavily it is patrolled by Autobot scum, we decided to tackle the closest first.

The four of us stand outside, staring up at this door in a sub level of Polyhex. Far too close to Iacon for any of our liking. Blade keys the door code, he doesn't even need Sparrow to hack it. The door rolls slowly. Clearly it had not been opened in many an age. What little light filters down doesn't even penetrate beyond the opening. We're on our own. Why do I have a bad feeling about this?

The interior could not be more different. Gone are the industrial overtones. In their place are hewn rock, archaic architecture and terrifying tapestries. While Blade maintains a medieval taste out of a sense if style, this place comes by it naturally. It is ancient. Gargoyles look down on us from on high. I hear the skitter of legs. There is no light as the door shut behind us. Sparrow and I resort to headlamps.

"What is this place?" I am the first to speak, my words swallowed up by the cavernous darkness. No echo responds. That is somehow more frightening.

"Before Megatron met his untimely end, he set you several fortresses around Cybertron from which to secure his power base should the need ever have arisen." Blade explains, but he sounds as awed as the three of us. "The Autobots managed to locate and destroy most if them. There are only a handful left. This is the only one I have access too."

"Then why don't we stay here the whole time?"

Blade doesn't smile. "It is too close to Icon, and would draw too much unwanted attention. Besides, there's another problem."

"Booby traps." Mischief chimes in.

"Indeed." Blade nods. "This place is laced with auto cannons designed to fire on any energy weapons they detect."

"Then how did Megatron stay here?"

"He carried a Fashion Cannon. They use a different kind of energy, and are normally only mounted on ships. It takes a being of intense power to world one. We will be going melee on this one."

"That means keep your cannon holstered if you value your head." Mischief jeers at me.

"I know what that means." I sneer back. "But I also don't have a weapon."

"Mischief." Blade orders

"Here." I am handed a machete. It is a bit undersized in my hand but the weight feels good. I have no idea where she was keeping it. "Try not to cut yourself."

Blade adjusts the sword at his belt. Mischief, ever one for style, unwraps the chain on a kusarigama. The hooked blade is nearly as long as her arm. I've seen her move and have no doubt she knows how to wield that chain. Sparrow just stands there with her arms crossed. As dangerous as the three of us are, we pale in comparison to this small bot.

"Ready?" Blade looks at each of us. No one raises any objections. "Let's go."

The fortress is just as terrifying as one would imagine it to be. To call it dark would be a wild misrepresentation. Even with Sparrow and I using our lights, and passive sensors on full, I feel blind. I bump into Mischief and she doesn't even scold me. Yet. Now I'm starting to get very nervous.

Then we see it. The faintest glow of purple seeping between the damp in the stones. A puddle there or a drip there. The temperature drops further and a sickly violet hue tints the air. My exhaust comes out in clouds. We pass between a pair of massive blast doors, wrenched from their settings. Mischief and I stop to look.

"What could have done this?" I whisper.

"Power." Blade looks back at us. "Raw power. Come on."

The next room is smaller, less of a grand entryway and more of a living chamber. It's not quite as cold in here, but there's less room to maneuver. I eye the auto cannons recessed into the walls, their lifeless lenses watching our every step.

Mischief stoops near a particularly luminous pool of liquid. As I lean over her shoulder, I can see my reflections. It is like glowing, wine coloured mercury. But there is something else, some otherworldly draw, as if I can hear the faintest whispers of my ancestors. Mischief reaches out almost tenderly, stretching two fingers to touch it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." I caution.

I am greeted with a scowl as she turns back to the liquid, touching it anyways. The surface tension breaks with some effort. I realize I have been holding my breath. Bringing her fingers to her mouth, it trickles down her arm and pools into her hand.

"It's energon." She sounds surprised.

"Dark energon. What did you think we were here for?" responds Blade.

Mischief and I look at one another. I merely shrug. "Not that." She responds, standing.

This room is mostly empty. Mounts on the floor indicate weaponry and workbenches had once been places here, but have long since vanished. The throne dominating the far wall is a shattered, ruinous heap. Claw marks are slashed into all the walls. Black columns buttress against the ceiling, while the beasties looking down on us seem far too alive. There is a single room just beyond the doorway. We've got to be nearing the end of this.

"I don't get it." I break the silence. "I thought you said this was a safehouse. If that's the case, then no one should have been here since Megatron died. Where is all the equipment? Why is this place trashed?"

"Because." Blade draws his katana. "We're not alone."

The gargoyles move. Glowing red lights blink on, shifting around the room. Mischief and I go back to back, and I find myself wishing she'd given me a larger sword. Sparrow drops into a combat stance. Only Blade stands stoic as the shadows shift and swirl around us. I can't even tell how many there are; nothing that big should be capable of moving this fast.

The clapping a surprise. The creatures fall back as the rhythmic step step of alloy on stone approaches in time with the mocking applause. Then, out of the mist and shadow, he emerges. Yellow and vermillion fury, he stands nearly as tall as me. His golden chrome glints off my headlights, and my optics go wide. Decepticons don't fear much, but even among our own kind, there are a few apex predators. Just being in the same room with them is enough to illicit terror in the faint hearted. I am feeling rather faint-hearted myself at the moment.

"Predacons." I whisper under my breath.

"Well done, Blade." Razorclaw purrs. "I knew sooner or later some poor soul with secret knowledge and access codes would come snooping around, scavenging from the scraps of our fallen lord and master. I just never imagined it would be you."

"Well, you know." Quips Blade. "It beats living in a tomb."

That draws a smile from Razorclaw. "I still remember you from the battle over Tantive IV. You were the best swordsman I've ever seen."

"I still am. Let us through and no one gets hurt."

"Ah, but you see, old friend. You may outclass me, but only just. Besides, I have more troops. Whereas you, well, you seem content to surround yourself with these… women."

My gender has always been a curse, but it is something every female learns to live with. Sometimes curses make the best armor. I try my best to see everywhere at once. There are two heavies flanking us, and one nasty piece of work prowling around behind Razorclaw. Reaching back, I tap Mischief's thigh four times. She responds with five. I have no idea where the fifth Predacon is, but I am sure she has eyes on him.

Searching my memory banks, I try to recall everything I know about Predacons. I've only got a single datafile on them, but it is enough to drive me to the edge of tears. Like the untamed forces of nature, the Predacons are ferocious animal robots who lash out with fury. Swift, savage and always relying on animal instinct, the Predacons explode into action. They combine into a hair-trigger horror, the giant robot Predaking. As a warrior, Predaking has no equal. As a weapon, he has no known weaknesses. This unholy nightmare is unstoppable, cloaking himself in lightning and death itself. If he is after you, you have but one hope: hide, and pray he does not find you.

"You know why I am here." Blade counters. "We don't have to do this. Join me. With our combined power, we would be unstoppable."

"I've seen enough Dark Energon powered mad men for one lifetime. I don't need to see another."

"You're not… using it for yourself?" Blade looks at him anew. "Of course you're not. You're guarding it, protecting it from… Ah, but of course. You are _safeguarding_ it! You fear Galvatron's insanity. You're not a concour; you are a foot soldier."

Razorclaw does not look pleased. "I would sooner deface a priceless sculpture than I would strike down a combat artist such as yourself. But I will. Out of respect for your combat skills and our shared time as comrades, I will ask you one time. Turn around and leave. You will not receive this offer again."

"I am dealing in worlds you cannot even imagine."

"Very well." Razorclaw bows deeply, backing away into the shadows. Once more we are left standing in the dark and the quiet.

"Did- did we win?" I hesitate.

"Don't count on it. Sparrow."

Sparrow transforms, the indigo glow of her anti-grav casting shadows on the room. I look far taller than I am, stretching to the ceiling. Then I see him. Divebomb, the vulture, staring down at me. There is a metallic flap of wings as this pale reaper descends. Then all hell breaks loose.

"Sparrow, GO!"

Sparrow takes off, zipping her way to the room at the rear of the chamber. Rampage almost catches her, but she's just too fast. He tears after her, like a panther chasing a bat. Then they are on me, and it is my turn.

The two big ones come after me. The rhino and the bull; I can't remember their names. I call them Boros and Toros. Two on one isn't much of a fair fight, but I should make things a little more interesting for me. I catch Tauros by the horns with both hands, stopping his charge cold. His eyes go wide, evidently he thought this would be an easy fight. With a grunt I heft him over my head and send his crashing into his friend.

There is a scream and I see Mischief has wrangled herself a bird. She has her kusarigama sunk deep into his chest, while she hooks her leg around the chain, reeling him in.

As the only one with lights, my view of the battle is unique. Blade and Razorclaw are locked in a fray, glowering at one another. I realize Razorclaw is the only Predacon fighting in robot mode. That may or may not be fortunate, as Razorclaw possessed claws that can cut through solid steel. Their swords clash once, twice, thrice, sparks flying each time. Neither says a word. I hear the thunder of hooves and turn back to my own dance partners.

They've changed their approach. Now they're side by side instead of single file. That's fine. I kill my headlights and take a mad leap. I don't quite make it, but I manage to roll across the back of one of them. Landing hurts more than it should have. Cuing my lights again, I notice a rather nasty gash in my side the rhino managed to fire me as I went over. So, they're more clever than I thought.

"You okay?" Mischief lands in front of me.

She's trying to strangle Divebomb, and it isn't going so well. I shake my head. Our earlier successes have slacked off now that the Predacons have gotten a feel for us. We are outclassed. Any victory here will be by their will alone.

"Switch." I mutter.

Mischief tosses me her chain and draws her swords. I've got Divebomb be the neck. The smallest of the bunch, he's still a big Predacon, and every mad flap of those wings lacerates my face. Those feathers are razor sharp. He's squawking and flapping when I get hit from the rear. Toros slams into me and I see stars. Divebomb catches his breath. I can hear Boros scream while Mischief rides his back, stabbing the whole way. She's breathing hard.

As my world swirls, I can see Blade and Razorclaw duking it out. Blade's cape is a flurry of tattered crimson. Razorclaw dances him in and out of the darkness. The Predacon was right; Blade is the superior swordsman, but only just. And this is Razorclaw's territory.

The bull slams into me again, and this time I roll for a good while. Struggling to my hands and knees, I cough up blood. I can hear Totos and Divebomb laughing. Mischief has her hands full, and I know I am on my own. So be it. I'm on my feet again, except this time, I'm angry. Toros charges a third time. I scream as I catch his horns on my hands. My heels dig into the ground and my back strains. His eyes go wide as I slow his charge and then stop it completely. It hurts so bad, but I get a sense of grim satisfaction just to see the look on his face.

My body goes into overdrive and I can feel my core downshifting for more power. With a mighty scream I give a twist. There is a sickening crunch as his neck snaps. He falls to the ground, unmoving in Stasis Lock. We're not organics; it probably won't be the death of him, but he won't be going anywhere for awhile.

I look at my hands, gouged and bleeding. I can see right through them. My energy reserves are also dearly depleted. I paid the price for that one. Looking around, no one is in better shape. Boros has thrown Mischief and is charging my way once more. Mischief lies on the floor, unmoving. Divebomb is heading my way now, as well as his rhino buddy. My knee is threatening to give out. I can't do round three. I just can't. There is no sign of Sparrow. And Blade. Oh, Blade.

Razorclaw is working every angle to his advantage. Faster on land, weaving in and out of the shadows, he is a nightmare in the dusk. For every two strikes Blade parries, one gets through his defence. Razorclaw presses his advantage, masked face glinting in the poor lighting. He looks every bit a demon from the depths of the Inferno, unblinking, unsmiling. An emotionless killing machine.

Then it happens. He strikes once, twice, three times and Blade goes down. I scream as Blade is forced to his knees, losing his sword. He looks exhausted. Razorclaw must be at his limit, but he hides it better. I am on my feet, rushing towards them.

"Any last words, traitor?" Razorclaw raises his sword.

"Give me a clean death."

"No."

The sword slashed down, but it doesn't connect. Instead there is a sickening crunch as Blade catches it between his hands. It is a struggle to hold the weapon still. Blade grits his teeth as blood oozes from between his fingers. Razorclaw doesn't look happy. He pulls back for another strike. I never give him the chance.

"You stay away from him!" I slam into him at full force.

Razorclaw backtracks a few steps. I outweigh him by a few tonnes, and he has to look to to meet my eye like everyone else. Nevertheless, her regains his composure quickly, stalking me with feline prowess.

"You think you can save him? Didn't he tell you where you are, girl?" He advances quickly. "This is the Thunderdome!"

I smell the must on his breath before I ever feel the bite of steel. I look down and simply see my arm lying beneath me on the ground. With the next strike I am blind, my vision cut in half. I find the ground quickly, falling to a knee. With a flick of his wrist, he extends razor sharp claws. I am merely prey for his amusement.

"I will rend your soul from its moorings."

I try to fight back, to use my size and weight to my advantage, but Razorclaw presses the advantage, slicing me up as he goes. I am off balance. I try to hit him with an uppercut, only to have nothing happen; I've nothing to hit him with. Reaching out with my left hand, he takes a few of my fingers, just because he can. We need a miracle. I get none.

Instead the rhino gores me, lifting me up and throwing me against his commander. I land on Razorclaw in a crumple. My HUD screen is redlining. Razorclaw is roaring like a lion, tearing into me with his claws, while Divebomb slashes at my back. There is no hope of rescue. I am going to die here.

My rage doesn't let me think straight. If they want to act like animals, I will put them down like animals. My proton cannon flips into ready position over my shoulder, powering up with a dangerous red charge. It is pointed right at Razorclaw, and for once, I get the satisfaction of seeing surprise on his expressionless face.

"Eat this, Predacon!"

The resulting explosion probably damages myself more than Razorclaw, but I still got to see him scream, clutching the charred crater of his face. Then the room gets bright. Very bright. All the visionless eyes recessed into the wall power on. All the laser cannons charge up. All of them are pointed directly at me. Too late I remember Blade's words of warning; I remember the booby traps. I turn back to meet his gaze. It is now easy in the red glow of the room. I give him the saddest expression I have.

Then the pain begins. Then I scream.


	12. Chapter 12

**XII**

My world is but shadows and darkness. I lay immobile, drifting in and out of consciousness. I sleep, wake and sleep again. I know that I am in my room, but beyond that, all outside my own mind is lost to me. Only my Les Orbus keeps me sane, bathing me in the light of its glory. My treasure; my Madonna.

The slightest movement brings me to screaming pain. Even my labored breathing is a struggle in futility. My joints creak, nearly welded into place. My body is burned and scarred. I cough, and my air intakes nearly give out. My sleep is a fevered one, and every time I wake up, I experience the pain anew. I have lost all sense of time in this place. I pray, though I am not religious. I speak, though no words come out. I live, though it is not a life worth living.

They told me later what happened. After I shot Razorclaw, Megatron's automated defenses kicked in. The lasers scorched everything. Everyone got hit, but they mainly targeted me. I took the brunt of the firepower. The lasers drained the defense grid and powered off one after another. In the quiet that followed, the heat was enough to cause my exoskeleton to glow orange. Apparently I was incandescent for hours, too hot to touch. Blade ordered a retreat and we limped away. I never did find out what happened to the Predacons. I guess they just didn't feel like fighting any more.

The truly worst part is, the physical trauma is secondary to the problems that came before. Even with all the damage I took, my internals are still compiling errors. My systems are caught in an endless cycle and slowly shutting down. The headaches are unrelenting. I can feel my processor taxing to keep up and losing. It is a slow death.

I hear my door creak open and power on my left optic. The shattered and melted glass makes it difficult to see, but it's the only eye I have left to me. Mischief silently enters, and for half a moment, I almost feel sorry for her. She doesn't look so good herself. But something tells me, I've got her beat.

"It's time to change your bandages." she mutters, setting the medkit down beside me. It's been several weeks, and my bleeding still hasn't stopped. I roll on my side with a hiss, turning my back to her. "Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but it has to be done. Now give me your arm."

"'S Blade?" The words come out wrong over my lipless teeth.

"He's out. Took Sparrow with him. They had an errand. So I'm stuck with you."

She rolls me back over, removing the oil stained bandages. I scream as my stump is freshly exposed. Without a medic, we have no way of sealing it properly. The major arteries stalworthly seep mech fluid, no matter how many times the others have tried to stem the flow.

I can't see much, but I can see the look on her face as she pulls away. I'm used to hatred from Mischief, not pity.

"Don' look at me like 'dat."

"What?" she looks away from my stump.

"Pity. I'm used to it, but not from you."

She smiles sadly. "Are you ever going to stop being a pain in my aft?"

"I should be out of your life soon enough. ARUGH!" I scream as Mischief wraps the bandage too tightly.

"You listen to me, you overgrown spark plug. There's only one person who can save you, and it is you. If you want to live, then live!"

"How?" I tear up from the pain. She's not being gentle.

"Self pity is the fastest way to the scrap yard. It is a trap far too easy to fall into, and nearly impossible to climb out of. But the way out is the path to salvation. Get angry. Wrap yourself in fury, cloak yourself in rage."

"I'm so tired…" I just want to sleep.

She slaps me much harder than she needs to. I see static. "If you give up on me, I will kill you in your sleep."

"Why do you care?"

"Because I've been through worse, and I'm still here."

"No."

I get a cold stare before she points to a scar on her arm. "An Autobot got the jump on me at Wei Jang. I had to swap out the arm. I managed to keep the fingers though. This one was a pit fight on Cybertron." She points to a nasty scar on her cheek. "The glitch used a laced vibroblade. It got infected and I almost died. And this one." Mischief gestures to her rotor blades on her back. "We got stranded on Camien Mars, and I single handedly drug Blade to safety. The entire rotor assembly needed replacing. So yeah, I've had my fair share of injuries and near death escapes. You'll live."

"You don' know what 's like." I can feel my gears grinding with every labored breath. "Not this. Not being used up. And dead."

My world goes black, but when I come too again, it must not have been that long, because Mischief is still there. My room has precious little furniture, so she sits cross legged on the floor, meditating. I am a little surprised; I never saw her as anything but a killing machine before now. Apparently she has other hobbies outside of death.

"You're awake." It isn't a question.

"It comes and goes."

"You feel better." Her next statement should have been a question.

What is left of my lips curl into a ghoulish grin. "Only when I don' move."

"You're wrong, you know." she opens her eyes. "I do know what it's like. I understand being trapped in your own body, unable to move, unable to eat, unable to breath without screaming. I fully comprehend the horrors of being a prisoner in one's own mind." Mischief stands, sashaying my direction. The scent of jasmine and motor oil wafts after her. "And yes, I understand the hell of being burned alive while your body turns to cinder around you, and your only respite is the sweet release of death."

I stare at her with the one eye I have left. The Blade's warning keeps running through my mind. 'Don't trust Mischief. She lies.' Is this some trick? Some method to impose her superiority over me? I've got little and less to lost, so I push my luck.

"Prove it."

To my shock, and honestly a bit of disappointment, I still function. I feel neither the cut of her sword, nor the lash of her tongue. She doesn't rage, or scream or threaten. She doesn't even storm from the room. She just stares at me before sighing and sitting on the edge of my bed. There is an audible click as internal safeties disengage. She cradles her head in her hands, pausing for just a moment to think, before removing her helmet.

Her head is a jumble of wires and bypasses; not the simple, refined layout of a positronic processor, but a mishmash of a hack job, done in haste without proper equipment. The steel on her skull is blackened and charred, pop marked from extreme heat. She must have been a remarkable stunning beauty before, with smooth, Autobot-like features. She still is, even now, in her own way. But I now see why she hides half her face behind that visor. It hides the scars and weld lines, covering up the blemishes from molten steel. The fire must have been cataclysmic to cause such severe damage.

My breath catches as we make eye contact. For half a beat I see how venerable she truly is. Seeing her this exposed makes me afraid. Decepticons do not trust one another. To show weakness is akin to petrorabits exposing their bellies; the stronger one has an obligation to the pack to dispose of the weakling by tearing their abdomen out.

Yet, without word or expression, Mischief dons her helmet with the utmost care. The clamps re-engage, and once more her piercing eyes are half hidden behind her visor.

"I know pain. I know the kind of pain that leaves you crippled and weak, praying for death. Unable to move, unable to exist, unable to do anything but meditate on your rage. Trust me, I know exactly what you're going through."

"How long-"

"Years." She cuts me off. "Until Blade found me. He was my salvation."

We sit without speaking. Every creak and groan from my burnt and shattered body accentuates my ailments. "I'm not like you." I cut in. "I'm not strong enough."

"It's not about me." She stands. "Or you. Blade chose you. I despise you, but he still chose you, and I have to respect that. But he didn't chose you to be a corpse; you're no use to him dead. So if you're planning on dying any time soon, well…" She pauses at the doorway to look back. "I will finish what that fire started. But you won't find me half as merciful."

She leaves, and once again I am bathed in the light of my Les Orbus. But this time, it brings me no joy. Only trepidation and fear for my future ahead, as I pass out once more.


	13. Chapter 13

**XIII**

"And this is what we are calling the Grand Hall after the- Ouch! Do you mind?" Blade stares down at the medic working on his arm.

"Don't move." Verticon snaps.

"I am trying to give you the tour. To 'welcome' you, so to speak."

"I don't care. Don't move." She is face down in the circuitry of her arm, soldering new connections to repair the damage after his fight with Razorclaw.

We are all gathered around the Grand Hall, sitting on the sofa or chairs or whatever makeshift furniture will hold my form. Blade sits on the couch with Mischief standing behind, glowering down at Verticon. Sparrow eyes the femme with equal parts curiosity and disinterest. Who knows what the slag is going on in her mind. Even I have crawled out of bed long enough to greet our newcomer. She has steadied my systems to the point that I am no longer in danger of emergency stasis. But I still wouldn't want to get in a fight right now.

I am still not clear on the particularities, but Verticon officially left Beamer's unit for our own. That fact alone had had Blade prancing around for the last three days. Mischief doesn't trust her, possibly with good reason. The twice-turned-traitor is a difficult stigma to shake. As for myself, I am just glad we finally have a medic.

"You've got a lot of lead buildup in the wrist joint. Is that causing you any pain?"

"No!" Blade yanks his hand away, closing the access hatch himself.

"Ah, right. Decepticons. Can't believe I actually got used to working with Autobots..." Verticon mutters to herself. "When was the last time you had a full medical diagnostic?"

Blade and Mischief glance at one another.

"Was that Dalcon V?"

"No, it was before that. With the lava beast, remember?"

"Oh, right. So Sigma VI."

"That was just you, though. I haven't had one since Scion."

"So, awhile?"

"Awhile."

They both look at Verticon and answer in unison. "A while."

"Regardless, I need to get all three of you checked out. Sparrow has done a decent job keeping you online, but I am sure you all have enough problems to keep me busy for a year. But this one…" She gestures in my direction. "Primus, Blade, what did you do to her?"

"Only what she did to herself. She chose her path, just as the others did. Same as you."

"Riiiiight." Verticon approaches me. Even sitting I tower over the pint-sized Decepticon. "The physical damage is… extensive. But it is the internals that are remarkable. She is loaded up with so many bad mods and corrupted data it is a wonder she is staying on her feet."

"'She' has a name." I mutter.

"Sure you do, kid." She smiles at me, I can tell that much. But it isn't how the others smile. This is almost… kind.

Verticon studies me the same way I appraise art. "What am I going to do with you?"

"I'm just a clutz." I hang my head.

"Perhaps. But I am not going to lay this solely at your feet. I am sure sweet words and lofty ambitions had much to do with it. A kindness here, a punishment there, an accidental caress and Blade had you eating out of the palm of his hand."

Blade bolts to his feet. "How-"

"Because you're outmoded, Blade. It's basic psychology, and I have seen it a thousand times. You warlords are all the same."

"-DARE you?! Who do you think you are?!" Blade stands.

"I'm exactly what you asked for. I didn't come to be part of your 'army', or out of loyalty, or even the grand tour. I came because you asked me. I came because you are paying me. I came-"

"Because you have nowhere else to go." Mischief bares her fangs. I can't tell from this distance, but I think it elicits a chuckle out of Sparrow.

"...Because you need help. My help. You are low on resources and out options. You tank is out of commission, your assassin is almost as bad, your scout is unhinged and your new medic is a mercenary. You may be a a great strategist, but right now you have backed yourself into a corner. Now," she turns to face him. "Is that a fair assessment?"

It is a battle unlike anything I have seen before; one not with swords or guns or even words, but a battle of wills. Verticon has made is remarkably clear that she had no loyalty to Blade, and will not come unt his leadership. Blade, on the other hand, is in desperate need of her professional skill and knowledge of uncharted space. Yet they both need one another. We can no longer so without a medic, and Verticon requires protection from the Autobots.

So, it seems, we have reached a stalemate. For now.

"What do you need?" Blade address the issue at hand, ignoring the personal grievance against him for the time being, as any good leader should. My chest swells with emotion.

"An uninterrupted week at Lifeline Memorial Hospital and a full complement of nursing staff.

"I can get you five hours in a safehouse on Nebulous."

"I am not quite sure you know what is going on here." Verticon begins to pace, hands folded behind her back, as she tallies information in her mind. "You need a full diagnostic and routine maintenance. I'm not that worried about you because you've been around long enough to learn to patch yourself up. Don't bother denying it, I'm your doctor, I know what autonomous weld lines look like.

"Sparrow? I have no idea what's going on with her. I'm not going to lie, I'm afraid to look under the hood on that one.

"Your glass cannon over there is going to take long enough on her own. I've worked on Mischief enough to understand the constant maintenance and upkeep required. We've also been in the same circles long enough for me to know that she doesn't do that. So I've got to fix everything she refuses to.

"And then there's you." Verticon stops and looks me in my good eye. She stares at me with callous red eyes, a gaze far older than her petite form indicates. But when I look at her, I feel at ease, something I haven't felt in the past three years, or even before that.

"I'll be honest, I don't see a good ending here. Maybe without the defensive wounds I could work on the burns. But before the burns I need to stabilize her internals. And I can't even touch those until I tackle that corrupt data in her processor. A task, much better suited for a neurosurgeon, which you do not have.

"So when I say I need a week in a high class medical facility, I mean it."

"Verticon." Blade grinds his teeth. "This is not a negotiation. It can't be done. We don't have the equipment, or the time, or the manpower. You'll just have to make do on the credit that we have and do your job."

"I'm telling you, a few hours in a shack aren't going to cut it. I can't do my job. Mischief? Maybe. But not Tanktanica, not with what she needs."

The silence that fills the air is as thick as smoke. Verticon has changed the entire team dynamic, and I am not sure I like it. She's been kind to me thus far, but it's clear that she is used to having her own way. I figure it is only a matter of time before she and Blade come to blows. Or worse, she and Mischief.

My head is swimming and I have trouble following the conversation. Blade wraps himself in his cloak, brooding. He looks a bit petulant, a side of him I've never seen before. Sparrow just looks bored, sitting with her legs crossed to her side. Mischief bites her lower lip, giving this discussion more thought than I figured she would. Surprisingly, she is the first to offer a suggestion.

"Verticon, can you make the repairs yourself?"

"Given the extent of her injuries? Maybe. I could if I had Sparrow to assist."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Blade turns to my blood-sister. "What do you have in mind?"

"You remember Riza VII?"

I watch him take a moment to remember. "That could work. It would be just the two of us though. Are you okay with that?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way." She mimics, smiling. I still envy the way he looks at her, even now. They have history I will never have.

"Someone catch me up." Verticon looks around. "What happened on Riza VII?"

"We took a bank hostage."

"That… could work. Especially if we can just occupy a wing, and not the entire hospital. All the equipment I need, we could stock up on supplies for years. We could even do some real damage and throw the CDC off our tail for a while."

"We'll need Sparrow to hack in."

"Don't worry about it."

"They'll surely have changed your keycode by now." Verticon offers.

Verticon smiles a toothy grin. "The Autobots were foolish to trust an active Decepticon loose in their system. Believe me, I left myself a back door or two."

"Well then, it seems that there is much to do and little time to do it in." Blade pulls his hood back. "Let's get started."


	14. Chapter 14

XIV

The bed of the ambulance is cramped for my form. The stolen medial shuttle was not designed with someone of my girth in mind. I am uncomfortable, strapped to the gurney as per protocol. Verticon made sure of that. Over the past few weeks, I have discovered she is actually very good at her job. She managed to get both Blade and Sparrow back to 100% capacity with what few supplies we had left. A little energon and they'll be good to go. While I wouldn't call her 'kind', she had a mellow outlook that meshes better with my personality than, say, Mischief. Maybe it's all the time she has spent with me treating my wounds, but I get the impression that we are on better terms than my other teammates. Maybe that's because we are both outcasts.

Mischief sits at my side in the bed of the ambulance, but I barely recognize her. She has swapped her black and red pinstripes for a white and red color palette. Her new helmet, though nothing but an aluminum facade, tops off the nurse motifs. She glances at me and mouths 'what?' but I just shake my head. Without her harsh war colors, she looks like an entirely different person. Maybe it is the painkillers Verticon has me hopped up on.

Verticon, now donning the traditional green and red colors of a battlefield medic, is up front with Blade sporting the same paint job. This entire operation hinges on both her skill as a medic, and the ability to sneak back into her former place of employment. Blade has decided to keep her company, in case her trust proves unwarranted. They have been spending a lot of time together, plotting, scheming, screaming at one another late into the night. Apparently there is more to an operation than I thought, even at this small scale. We've all been on edge, to the point where Mischief has been slipping into my room just to get some sleep. I hope they have all the details hashed out, because it's a bit late now.

As we approach the Lifeline Memorial Hospital I crane my neck back to watch our descent through the front windscreen. Mischief sulks in her seat, arms and legs crossed.

"Don't want to watch?"

"Trust me, I've seen enough of it to last me two lifetimes."

Our descent is choppy but Blade takes us on in. The weapons scrubbers scan the ship, searching for residual energy signatures. Normally this would be a serious issue, but we've got an ace in the hole waiting for us. Our signature dampeners are on high, so we don't give off any Decepticon energy signatures. The surveillance drones blink green and we cruise right on through.

I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding. Mischief releases her death grip on her seat. We glance at one another and smile nervously.

"Relax, you two." Verticon looks back. "We're almost there."

"This had better work, squirt." Mischief threatens. Even without firearms, she is armed to the teeth. I know this without having to look. Verticon just ignores the threat and faces forward.

The hospital itself is a massive white spire, a new megastructure dominating the skyline. It could be seen as a monument to Autobot victory, but I've heard they see it as a tribute to helping the fallen. I almost choke on the irony.

At the underground loading bay there is an automated guard. Surely they can't expect terrorists in a hospital, but the security system is programed to kill, nonetheless. The drone beeps angrily. Blade and Mischief reach for hidden weapons as I strain against my restraints. Verticon though, she just rolls down the window and flashes her ID.

[Welcome. Bria Tharen. Please pull forward.]

Once more I sigh in relief. Blade parks us and the rear hatch opens. It smells like musty ventilation in the underground tunnel.

"How did you get a fake ID to pass the scanner?" asks Blade, pulling out my hover gurney. "Even the best one on the black market can't get past the scanners."

"Because it's not fake." She checks her datapad. "I just walked into administration and told them that my new hospital ID hadn't been issued yet. Then I gave her my credentials. _Those_ were the fakes. My spare hospital ID is completely legit. I would check in and out with it once a week and no one was the wiser. What?"

"I never would have thought of that." Blade admires.

"That's because you've been a warlord for too long. Come on, we've got work to do."

We wheel though the white walled hallways of the hospital, crossing two more checkpoints and a turbolift, taking special care to avoid anyone else. Disguises will only get us so far, and Blade and Mischief kind of stick out like sore thumbs, even with their new enamel. We need a fully stocked operating in a lightly used wing of the tower and minimal security. This is the bit where I have the most reservations. Laying flat on my back I am prone and helpless, relying fully on the others. And while I trust Blade with my life, it is the others I am not too keen on. Silently I reach out my hand for Blade's, but he just brushes it off.

"Which way, Verticon?" We've reached a cross section.

"I'm not sure."

"What do you mean, you're not sure?!"

"I've never been to this wing before. There's too many faraday fields here. But we should be close. I think?"

As if to answer her question, there is a crunch and the access hatch in the ceiling springs open. A hawk-chinned mask and cool green eyes peer down directly at me. They almost seem to wink before the rest of her body follows down to the ground.

"Any problems?" Blade asks. Sparrow shakes her head, deftly tossing weapons to my comrades. Blade slings the rocket launcher over his shoulder as a pair of null-rays click into place. "Good. Verticon?"

"Next left past the turbolift."

We take a left and find ourselves in a darkened wing. Apparently this is the part of the hospital used for emergency air raids. But, since that's than an imminent threat, it should suit our needs just fine. Pausing outside the operating theatre, Verticon takes assessment.

"Okay, here's the list." She hands Blade the datapad. "You know what you're looking for?"

Blade nods. "Just like we discussed."

"You're the boss. Just make sure you rob the place too. I'd like to get paid this month."

Blade sneers. Never a good sign. "Okay, here is the plan. Mischief and I will acquire everything on Verticon's list. Meanwhile, she and Sparrow will stay behind and prep Tanktanica for surgery. Once we return Sparrow will assist Verticon with the surgery. Is that clear?"

Everyone voices their ascent. Even Sparrow nods vigorously. Blade takes a moment to grip my hand. He looks down on me; I can see my reflection in his optics, my broken and scarred face smiling sadly.

"I will see you anew"

"Of course." I don't really understand what he means by that. But it doesn't matter, as he leans down and kisses my forehead. My spark melts a little.

"Sparrow." He stands back up and stares at Verticon who is currently going g over the last with mischief. Sparrow steps closer in ascent. "Watch her. Closely. Every step of the way."

With that Blade and Mischief rush away, off on another adventure without me. I have to come to terms with the face that, no matter how much I long to, I will never be as perfectly matched as those two. Their crazies sync up perfectly.

Verticon, as if knowing my thoughts, pats my shoulder. "You about ready?"

Let's do this." I sigh.

Through the double doors we go. The automated lights snap on and I squint in return. The room smells of viral purge and recycled air. The walls are white, the ceiling is white everything is sparkling. I wonder if this is so you can't tell when you die, you just transition into the pure white of the Well of Allsparks?

The operating table is quickly laid out, with the surgical implements arranged accordingly. Sparrow primes the backup computer programs. The two make short work of the preparations. Unsurprising, given their skill. Finally I am un-strapped and encouraged to sit up.

"Feeling okay?"

"Scared. Nervous." I admit to my weakness.

"That is entirely understandable." I look the smaller femme in the eyes. Her optics are clear and alert, not at all clouded with the anger and pain I am so used to seeing in my daily life. It is there, yes, so much wrath, but it is secondary; set aside for duty, hidden behind skill and razor sharp resolve.

"This is really real. This is happening." panic clenches at my throat.

"It's okay, calm down." Verticon loads in a data command and I feel my system slow down a bit. It makes it harder to think. "You're going to be fine. Do you trust me?"

"Yes?" My tongue is heavy in my mouth.

"I know. We'll see how that goes."

I'm about to ask what she means when Mischief returns with a hover tray of supplies. There's enough spare parts, computer supplies and augmentations there to supply a small army for entire war. Mischief is positively glowing.

"Look at this! How have we been scraping by on scraps for all these years? This stuff is premium!"

"Don't just stand there. You've got a long ways to go."

"Let me enjoy it." Mischief caresses a replacement shoulder shock piston against her face. I know she's been needing one.

"The more you get, the sooner I can fix you up back at Stranglehold. There's an R&D department on level 117. Be sure to steal everything that isn't bolted down. And hit the dispensary on your way back."

"Got it."

"I want every prescription for spice they have!"

"I'm not enabling your drug habit!" Mischief is running for the door again.

"Yes you are!"

The minutes tick by as we nervously wait for the rest of the medical supplies. Verticon nervously checks and rechecks the layout for the operation. Sparrow stands silently to the side, seeing all but saying nothing. I scratch my stump. Not exactly glamorous, but there's little else to do aside from wait. None of us exactly feel like making small talk.

Finally Blade returns pushing a gurney. I don't recognize the pod, but it is almost as large as I am. Mischief follows close behind with the rest of our supplies.

"Any trouble?" Verticon acks, scanning the barcode on the pod.

Blade shakes his head. "It just took a while to find one with the proper specifications. And one that was to my… liking."

No one says anything. Verticon and Blade just stare at one another, as if some sick joke has just passed between them. Even Mischief appears a little green around the gills. I am having trouble following the conversation, but I can't tell if that is the content of their unspoken words, or the pain killers and suppressors flowing through my damaged system.

"It'll work." Verticon finally agrees. "Let's get it on the table."

Blade and Mischief lift the pod onto the second operating table. Rigging the wiring harness and monitors, the pod hisses as it powers on. Sitting next to it, I can feel it fluttering, almost as if it is alive. I am afraid to reach out and touch it.

Sparrow and Verticon exchange a few words. "We're good here."

"We'll hold the line. I think Mischief may have alerted security." Blade nods. He and Mischief head for the door. "Oh, and Verticon?"

"Yes?"

"We have one shot at this. Do not fail me."

The tension ratchets up after that. Verticon strapps me down once more, and I can feel my processor syncing with the hospital computer. My vitals appear on the overhead screen. I'm not doctor, but even I can tell my vitals alarmingly high. Verticon gives me another round of suppressors, and I can feel my system under-clocking. Sparrow is working on the pod, entering line after line of tedious code. She is reading off Verticon's data pad.

"How you doing?" She takes my hand.

"What's in the pod?" I can't take my eyes off it. I feel connected to it somehow.

"Emergency medical protoform, V-class, serial number LU-6-NU-7."

"What?"

"It's you."

I strain hard to understand her words, but no meaning comes. I repeat them over and over in my mind. It's You, dummy. What does she mean by that? Do I have a sister? I thought she was going to fix me? Finally, all I can do is repeat myself.

"What?"

Verticon sighs. "Listen. Your body is severely damaged. The repairs would take weeks, which you know we don't have. On top of that, your processor is corrupted beyond repair. All those augmentations and upgrades Blade forced on you have done their work."

"No, I did that myself." I defend him. How dare she talk about Blade like that.

"Look, it doesn't matter. I've got to do I full reshell. We're going to pull your spark out and put it in this protoform. I'm going to backup your memory, filter out the corruption, and load it in. Then I am going to salvage everything I can. After that, I'll personally pull the plug."

"What?" I repeat again. There is the sound of gunfire eruption down the hall.

"You're dying, Tanktanica. I cannot repair you with the time and manpower available. This is the only way I can save your life."

"Have you done this before?"

Verticon thinks for a moment. "I wrote a peer reviewed paper on the theoretical procedure. But I have never personally done this before, no. It's only been successfully accomplished once that I know of."

The entire building rocks with an explosion. Apparently Blade and Mischief are in the thick of it. I can hear the sound of gunfire and the klaxons from another wing. The stasis pod begins screeching as it reaches critical mass, and Sparrow begins furiously entering code.

"We're out of time." Verticon keys the control panel, diverting her attention away from me. My head itches where the cables have jacked in.

"Okay." I take a deep breath. "I trust you."

"Do you remember what I told you the first time we met?"

I think back hard, trying to remember. Nothing comes to mind. "No?"

"'Don't trust anyone.'"

With the flick of a switch I spiral backwards into stasis lock. The white of the room vanishes into a black void.

And with that, my life as I know it, ends.


End file.
